


cruel thing called time

by Blepbean



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Human AU, Inspired by Call Me By Your Name, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2019-12-25 19:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18267542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blepbean/pseuds/Blepbean
Summary: When two people fall in love, it’s forever lasting, eternity.But when two, poor souls, fall in love. It’s fast, quick, easy to fall into and addicting. But there’s a cruel thing called time, which will rip them apart and leave them bleeding and aching.“Call me by your name and I’ll call you by mine”





	1. start of calamity

**Author's Note:**

> Couple of things before this starts!  
> I haven’t read the novel, I have only seen the movie.  
> Currently in the process of tweaking my writing style, sorry if this is a little iffy  
> Couple of chapters are going to be a bit boring, it’s just going to introduce a couple of things.  
> I don’t have a betareader, I proofread this myself, please point out some mistakes you find!
> 
> Well that’s done.
> 
> Kudos, comments and feedback and is appreciated <3

He watches the smoke twist and curl, until it vanishes in thin air.

 

Gavin’s wasting away his minutes of his lunch break in the pond. He sometimes throws rock in the murky waters as he watches the ripples ebb through the pond. Sometimes he pulls the grass beneath him. Most of the time he sits there, staring out into hit little spot, his little secret where the water perfectly reflects the hot, afternoon sun.

 

He pulls back his shorts up to his thighs, dipping his legs into the cold water. He knows it’ll be absolute hell to take out the moss that sticks to his legs. He would get Tina’s help though, if only she was here.

 

He misses her.

 

Tina’s the only person that manages to put up with him. He doesn’t know why she friends with him, are they even friends? He already lost the meaning of it seven years ago, gone with the burns of his past. She makes things interesting, makes him do his paperwork that piles on his desk. She looks out for him, but never pushed too far, only asking questions but never asking if he’s  _ okay.  _

 

She’s like a sister that Gavin’s never had.

 

But there’s  _ always _ something wrong between them that both of them knows. They dance around issues they really should talk about. They avoid conversations that has anything to do with Gavin’s mundane life. It’s always her mundane, boring life they talk about. Not his. They keep it that way. It”a better that way.

 

But now she’s on a vacation, a month away from this hellhole where only old people exist. The small town they live in is slowly decaying, decomposing. She’s away from here, saying that she’s ‘taking some time away to find herself’. He’s jealous in a way, she actually cares about herself unlike Gavin. Living off cigarettes, coffee and sometimes alcohol, Tina would always be there to keep him fed, to keep him  _ alive _ .

 

He misses her.

 

He misses her cat too.

 

He really should leave, go back to his desk where he will only stare at the pile of paperwork he has to do. He’s already five minutes late, but he couldn’t care. He really couldn’t care if Fowler yells at him again. He really couldn’t care if he gets his badge taken off him, the precinct is falling apart anyways. 

 

So he stays there a bit more longer, trying to stretch out every  _ single  _ second he has to himself because he’s selfish.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He  _ hates _ busses.

 

But it’s the only way he’ll be able to get from Detroit to the middle of nowhere. The middle of nowhere where his Dad lives. Nowhere. There’s nothing in there, only decaying family business and old people. He shouldn’t have come, he should went to another precinct, the one at Detroit was perfect.

 

But this was the only thing available.

 

The lack of space is slowly driving him insane. The babies crying, the loud noises, the cheap air freshener that’s making him dizzy. He hates it. He hates everything. He’ll rather be outside, walking under the hot, scorching sun.

 

He tries to block out the noise, plugging his earphones in, but it’s too loud, the only song he downloaded won’t block out the children crying. He keeps going on his phone, on and off, watching his battery and single slowly drain away.

 

He can put up with this, at least he should be. There’s only a couple of hours left. A couple hours of hell. 

 

He can make it through.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He barely made it through.

 

He takes out his heavy suitcase, feeling sweat already form on his forehead. He’s already thinking of the restless nights, how he won’t be able to get much sleep, how he’ll be sweating all day. He sips the sweat away, thanking the bus driver as he hands Connor his suitcase.

 

He walks away from the crowd. Crowd of people full of families visiting their grandparents and relatives who’s close to their deathbed. He could still hear the children’s complains of the weather as he moves twenty meters away.

 

Isn’t what he’s doing though?

 

He’s visiting his Dad. Visiting his Dad in the middle of nowhere. It’s killing two birds one stone. He’s getting workplace experience while getting see the only person that ever managed to stay on his life. 

 

He’s sitting down on a rock, fingers picking at the tiny grains of sands that somehow made its way into the middle of nowhere. He’s sitting, waiting under the tiniest of shade that the bush can give. He’s humming a quiet song beneath his breath as it gets carried away by the cool, summer breeze.

 

“Connor.” He recognises that voice. There’s a stupid smile on his face as he stands up, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

 

“It’s good to see you lieutenant.” He says, taking a jab at him, a joke. It’s been so long, so long that he already forgotten all the  _ bad _ parts of him, the bad smell of alcohol, the bad smell of cigarettes. 

 

“Don’t think you should be joking around there.”

 

“Sorry,  _ Dad.” _

 

He drags his feet through the grass, kicking over the tiny rocks that hides on the ground. He gets his suitcase, dragging it through the grass like he did with his feet. 

 

“What are you doing here again.”

 

“Workplace experience.”

 

“You could have picked the precinct in Detroit.”

 

The comforting silence between them grows.

 

A part of him wants to tell the truth. That he only picked this precinct because he knows he would get it in because of his Dad. But he knows he should lie, lie that he picked here because he wants to see him, the littlest of lies Connor could cut him down like a log. He’s torn, slowly splitting in half.

 

Instead he says nothing. 

 

He lets the quiet chirps of the birds fill the silence. He lets the quiet rustling of the leaves. He doesn’t answer because he’s too torn, he doesn’t want to hear, he doesn’t want the silence to become empty and deafening. But the worse thing is that he doesn’t want his mind to whisper  _ liar  _ to him for the rest of the day.

 

So they walk the rest of the way in total silence. He catches the glimpses of strangers staring him weirdly. He hates it, he hates having eyes on him. He looks down on the gravel to pretend that he doesn’t notice.

 

“So this is where I… live.” He watches his Dad awkwardly coughs into his arm, then he looks at him like he’s hasn’t done enough, like he’s ashamed. It’s weird, he’ll never get around to understanding him properly. The house outside looks fine, it’s away from everyone, there’s a veranda where he’ll be spending his time trying to get a signal. 

 

“It’s nice.” Connor mutters, staring at the paint that peeling off from the wood. 

 

“You don’t mean that.”

 

“I mean a house is a house.” 

 

“No it’s just that it sucks.”

 

“It doesn’t suck.” He gives him a sweet smile to cheer him up, but it looks like it didn’t do anything to stop the frown on his face, he’s always been bad at making people feel better. Connor walks forward ahead of him, hiding the anxiety on his face as he feels the steps drop low to the ground.

 

Maybe it’ll be better on the inside.

 

He’s hoping.

 

“Keys.”

 

“I’ll open it.”

 

“But I want to open it.”

 

“My house,” he pauses as he gets the suitcase from Connor. “My rules.”

 

The door swings wide open.

 

He tries his best to not show the disgust on his face. He shouldn’t be feeling that, he’s allowing him to stay with him. 

 

But he’s  _ not _ sleeping on the covers of his bed without putting it on the wash.

 

There’s beer cans on the table, newspapers that’s stained with alcohol on the ground. He picks it up off the dusty floor, reading the headlines so he can distract himself from the stuffy smell of cigarettes. The kitchen looks horrid, stacks of unwashed plates is sitting on the dirt, grey water.

 

“Welcome home.” He heard it behind him as the door closes behind him. There’s a smile on his face, he hasn’t seen Sumo in a while, it’s what he thinks about while he walks through the living room, searching for the Saint Bernard. 

 

“A dog?”

 

“I uh.. gave him away.”

 

_ Oh _

 

“Why?” He regrets the words that he said. He’s looking at him, sitting in the breaking chair. Something must’ve happen to Sumo.

 

“I… don’t know. I don’t trust myself with him  _ anymore _ .” It only leaves more questions than answers. He wants to find out what happened, maybe if he can push him, ask what happened to Sumo in the 2nd question.

 

He doesn’t get  _ it _

 

“How much do you drink?” He asks, sitting in his suitcase. Maybe he can get something out this this, push him a little further, unlock answers about his  _ Dad _ and how he’s been acting. A part of him is saying no, it’s saying to leave it alone, but he  _ deserved _ to know.

 

“You know what Connor I-I don’t want to talk about this I’m sure you have a lot of things to unpack.” 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Connor looks at him for a short second. He looks like he’s about to say something, to spill his secrets that’s imbued into normal words, but he doesn’t, he always doesn’t, it’s something that he knows he  _ won’t  _ do. He watches him close his mouth, clear his throat as he picks up a newspaper from the coffee table. 

 

So he does what he’s told. His curiosity still lingering in Sumo.

 

He just wants to feel his fur one  _ final  _ time _. _

 

He opens his door to his tiny room which is filed with only a single closet and a bed. It’s small, dusty, smelling of old books and old newspapers. A little part of him dies as he feels the boards creak beneath his feet and the dust float into the air. 

 

He will manage.

 

He thinks anyway. 

 

Something is telling him to get rid of all the dust, all the stains on the bed. To put things into order, neat piles and neat lines. He likes thing clean, in order. Not in chaos and dust, not this. 

 

But he’ll manage, he always does.

 

He sets his suitcase on the bed. Getting out his clothes into nice, neat piles as he stares out the window. He reminisces about him and his Dad four years ago, back on Detroit, smiling, laughing with Sumo, like a little tiny family. Not like this in the very moment. Keeping unspoken words away from each other and pushing it deep down. Their barely keeping open touch, only held by fragile, messages every week. 

 

Everything feels like a void to him, slowly sucking everything away from him until there’s nothing left but him.

 

Don’t go Hank

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The flicking of the papers, the loud sound of the fan in front of his face and the quiet chatter. It’s the monotonous things that he hears as he spins his pencil on his desk like an idiot. There’s a nagging thought inside his head. The reasonable one. The one that he should listen to. Telling him to do his paperwork so he doesn’t get his badge taken away from him.

 

But he doesn’t really  _ care  _ about his badge anymore. 

 

He  _ used _ to. 

 

Here he was, stuck as a police officer in the middle of nowhere. In the middle of nowhere because he plans to slowly decay with the decaying small town. Maybe if he would’ve tried. Maybe if he had gone and did things differently, maybe if he did more English subjects in high school, maybe he’ll be a famous author, its what he always dreamed of as he stares at the ceiling of his old house. 

 

But what’s done is done. He’s living of his mess he’s created, slavering away at a police station that barely has anything happening. It’s a slow, decaying day as he feels himself slowly drain away slowly into nothingness, into a speck of dust. The rest of the word fades away as he stares at the clock, the quiet ticking sound is getting louder inside his ears.

 

_ “Gavin.” _

Maybe he should fade away right here, for  _ real _ .

 

“Gavin.” 

 

“Chris?” He looks up at him, eyes focusing as he blinks a few times. He pinches  the bridge of his nose. He feels the sting of pain as he pinches harder, maybe it can help him wake up. 

 

“You okay? You were staring into space a couple of minutes—“

 

“I’m fine,” he mutters, moving his chair closer to his desk, “I’m fine.” He repeats again, because he didn’t know what to say. There’s only a thin piece of silence and awkwardness between them, dividing them in half. He doesn’t walk to him. But Chris is only one of the few people that sometimes approaches him even though he pushes everyone away, pushes everyone away with his terrible, hideous attitude because he’s evil, horrible, _mean._

 

“You sure you looked like you were one second away from—“

 

“Death? I know you care about me but I don’t give a single  _ shit _ about myself so please fuck off.” He pretends to go back to his paperwork, head down, hoping that Chris would go away, hoping that he won’t see him again for the rest of his shift. He’s like that. Keeping his head low. Keeping to himself. Keeping to himself with his  _ demons  _ that linger inside his brain. He breathes a little easier when he hears the footsteps get fainter with each second. He’s then back to the shuffling of papers, the quiet sighs and the occasional phone calls.

 

This is what he’s used too. It’s fine. He like this. He likes being inside his comfort zone filled with repeating days and monotonous sounds of the police station. He’s fine with it. He’s already burrowed deep what  _ different  _ meant. He’s associated many bad things with new and strange. Like the amount of people that walked out his life each time he tries to take a step forward out of his darkness. He tried many things. But there was one person, with icy eyes with grey hues that walked away from him, leaving him cold in his center that left ghost looming inside. 

 

He was 18 when it happened

 

He’s fine now.

 

_ He’s fine now _

 

He trying it forget it all by doing his work for the first time in a  _ while.  _ He’s listening to the sound of his pen scribbling down words down on the paper. Reminding him of the good times when he wasn’t  _ like  _ this.

 

He  _ wants _ it all back _. _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Connor sitting on his bed. The smell of cheap detergent is too much for his nose, it’s the only thing he found that he can wash the covers with. He’ll manage, he’ll rather have this than the stains on the covers of his bed. He keeps switching spots, twisting and turning, ruining the covers which he meticulously ironed. He’s restless, as he lays sits cross legged like a child, staring at the dusty walls, always staring and looking, analyzing for something that’s not  _ there _ .

 

Right now he’s counting the tiny lines that’s ingrained in the wood. He’s squinting, trying to find every single one. It's what he gets for not bringing a book with him. It’s what he’s doing as the sun’s dying low on the ground, bathing the ground beside him in beautiful hues of reds and yellows and orange. It’s pretty to look at, taking him away from his activity.

 

  1. After his short attention span ended he sighs, falling back on his bed as he lays there, silent. The silence is deafening too, ringing inside his ears, it’s weird to listen to. Maybe he could count the lines on the ceiling, but it’s too hard to see. He pulls out his phone, bright blue light blinding him in the eyes. He knows there’s still not a single bar of signal. But he looks anyways, always checking every five minutes, always looking to cure his boredom. 



 

The sound of the rough, loud and brash knocking in the door gets his attention. He hesitantly stands up from his bed, almost falling over as he stumbles forward. The knocking only gets louder, quicker. It only irritates him more. 

 

He swings the door open, not thinking to look through the tiny hole. It could be a stranger for all he knows, or a murderer. 

 

“Hi.”

 

“I’m sorry but who are you?” Connor’s scratching the back of his mind, confused. Hank never told him anyone is coming. There’s no point in asking, he’s passed out on the couch and it reminds him of the times he passed out from strong alcohol that belonged to brands he didn’t know before. He hates how much he can’t tell apart if he’s asleep or passed from drinking too much. Maybe he  _ actually _ passed out drunk. He hates it.

 

He adds it to the long list of thing he hates in life 

 

“You don’t need to fucking know.” He doesn’t pay attention the words he said to him. Instead his curious mind tells him to look at his scar at the bride of his nose. It’s small, it’s weird to look at. Maybe it from a knife? Or an accident. Maybe it was—

 

“Hey! Asshole I’m talking to you.”

 

“Sorry, but I don’t know you.”

 

“You don’t need to know who  _ I  _ am.” 

 

“I can’t let strangers, sorry.” He’s had enough. He’s closing the door on the strange and rude man. But he’s persistent. He stops the door closing by crushing his foot by the door. He could practically feel the pain being inflicted onto him as he hears the quiet scream.

 

“What the fuck?”

 

“I’m sorry!” He’s panicking in the inside. He’s always been good st hiding things. His brain is going 1000 meters a second and he’s panicking, scared. he doesn't know what to do. Out of panic he does something he  _ knows _ he’s going to regret when he wakes up in the morning, plaguing him in the back of his mind. He  closes the door for real this time, slowly backing off as he walks runs back off his room.

 

He tries not to dwell on it too much as he continues his cycle to try cure his boredom. It’s what he did in Detroit, back when he lived with Hank. When he did something he regretted he’d run back to his room. Try not to think about it. Try to push it at the back of his mind and try to forget about it.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Gavin’s itching for another cigarette, another smoke, another moment to watch the smoke curl and twist in the air. He knows he  _ shouldn’t _ . He made a promise with Tina, a promise that he shouldn’t smoke before they message each other in the middle of the night at the top of the hill where he sits. 

 

It’s quiet, dark, cold. He can feel the freezing summer night breeze coming through. He’s waiting, still waiting. It’s been an hour already, an hour of staring at his phone, wary of his battery and the one bar of signal on the top. He’s waiting, always waiting on his end, and he’s hoping too, hoping that she didn’t  _ leave  _ him.

 

_ “If this gets to you really late I’m so sorry! I’m having so much fun away, you should’ve come with me would’ve been fun lmao. I might move here, you should leave the _

 

He’s smiling, smiling from the only connection he has to Tina through a single, small message. He’s hoping there’s a photo she apploaded, a selfie of her having fun like she did last night. But he knows he shouldn’t be relying on her too much. He’s already trusting her. To send a single message to him every night.

 

_ “I should but I can’t I’m broke.” _

 

He tries not to dwell on what she said. That he should move out from the middle of nowhere. But he already decided that he’s slowly decays with the small town. Gavin can’t tell Tina that. He doesn’t tell her  _ anything _ , if he did she’d would force him to move out. Maybe that’s why he likes her. That she doesn’t push forward, she doesn’t ask, she only cares if he’s okay, if he’s breathing or alive. 

 

But something in on his mind as he walks backs to his shitty house. That  _ boy _ , possibly 16 or 18. He didn’t know Hank had a son. He looks fragile, soft, untouched by the heartbreaks and heartaches. It’s like a  _ perfect  _ example on what he wanted to be when he was 18.

 

But there’s a cruel thing called time, slowly taking everything away from everyone, robbing away things that slowly mattered to him like Tina. But that  _ boy,  _ looks different, different from everyone. Maybe he’ll be like Gavin when he grows up, feel the cruel thing called time take everything away from him.

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. grey hues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor doesn’t know why his eyes are something he can fall deep into.
> 
> It’s a thought, quickly fleeting into another useless thought that he’ll forget in five minutes.
> 
> He hopes anyways.
> 
> It has to.
> 
> But he’s curious, he’s only taking a small step forward into his curiosity, only a tiny amount, nothing too dangerous.
> 
> Why is his eyes full of grey hues so addicting?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m kind fo getting emotionally invested on this. I never knew I could write this much lmao. 
> 
> Kudos, comments and feedback is appreciated <3

He couldn’t sleep properly last night. He keeps twisting and turning, shifting on his bed as he tried to fall asleep. A thought kept him up at night. The stranger, the man with the scar in the bridge of his nose. He didn’t know why, how how  _ he  _ ended up in his dreams. Dreams were fragments of reality, shifted and turned. That’s what he told himself when he got nightmares, that dreams  _ weren’t  _ real.

 

But it’s confusing him. 

 

He’s getting ready for the day, waving away the dust as he opens his closet. He frowns, quickly getting dressed.

 

“Connor!”

 

“Yes?!”

 

Silence, the clothes rustling and the quiet breeze outside takes over. His anxiety bubbles in his stomach, it’ll explode if he isn’t too careful. 

 

“Dad!?”

 

Nothing. No answer. Only the sounds outside replies to him. He walks out of his door half-ready. The sunlight creeping through the rugged, old curtains is blinding him. He shouldn’t be paying attention the light, he needs to check on  _ him,  _ such as  _ if _ he’s breathing _.  _ It’s like what he did four years ago, sudden silence from him and not realising it  _ almost  _ killed him.

 

Please don’t go Hank.

 

The view of the living room comes into view, creeping slowly like the curtains from a play. He feels weight of a thousand mountains  _ crushing  _ him only a moment ago slowly disappear away. He’s there, alive, he thinks anyway but he’s there, curled in a blanket, snoring lousy with a beer bottle in his hands. 

 

He’s creeping slowly towards him, delaying the inevitable. He can’t handle checking up on him and finding out that’s he’s not breathing. It’s slowly sinking in, burrowing itself into his mind until the words _he’s not breathing_ echoes inside him. 

 

He hates it 

 

_ He hates it.  _

 

Silence is deafening, ringing inside his ears as he opens his mouth to speak, but the words are stuck, left in his throat as he struggles to get it out. But he’s  _ breathing _ , he can feel the  _ disgusting _ warm air that’s coming out of his mouth. He can’t find the right words, so he shakes the chair, with more force with each second. 

 

It’s like someone is taking the words, stealing it right out of his mouth. 

 

He suddenly jostles awake, looking left, right and then at Connor. He wipes the stains of his beard, then sighs.

 

“You were calling for me.” He nutters, then walks away because he can’t handle the fact that this might be his daily routine, each time he wakes him up his body tenses up with the thought that—

 

“Jesus Christ, fuckin’ hell. What time is it?”

 

He smiles at him, trying to be kind, trying to hide his fear behind his simple smile. “It’s nine in the morning, didn’t you say you were you going to—“

 

“Yeah, I fucking know.”

 

He stands up, wiping his beard before groaning, hand rubbing his temple. He feels bad for him, there were times where his Dad would describe the excruciating pain, saying that it was as though a nail is being drilled to his skull deeper and deeper and—

 

It seems as though the nail is breaking his skull open with the groans he’s making. 

 

It’s awkward for him, weird. He feels useless, just watching him burn and groan, he feels like he should help him, take away the pain, ease him. 

 

But he knows he should suffer from the consequences he made. Maybe he’ll finally learn, get healthy, stay away from alcohol. Maybe, he’s hoping as he looks at him, leaning against the wall, his breath heavy and ragged. 

 

“Dad are you okay?” Hes mutters. But there’s no answer. Not a reply from him to retort back. Only silence, thick and heavy, settling in between them. 

 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” He waves him away, he doesn’t know if he should be feeling grateful that he  _ spoke  _ despite the gravel and roughness in his voice. 

 

“You sure.”

 

“Yeah I’ll be,” he pauses, like he’s afraid, scared to look at him in the eye, ”fine, just fine and dandy, give me,” a cough rattles him, ”one, one goddamn minute.”

 

He’s trying his best to not bite the inside of his cheek. The last time he did that he was spitting blood for the last few days. His Dad is in a sorry state, his hair is frizzy, there’s alcohol stains on his dirty shirt that has a faded logo and his blue, basketball shorts as holes in the bottom. 

 

“Just five minutes,” he tries his best to give a Connor a smile but it fails miserably, it only makes him feel  _ worse  _ about him, “five minutes can’t hurt anyone.”

 

“Alright.” He says reluctantly. He feels like there’s a boulder in his stomach, slowly sinking him down. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Gavin’s stares at his shit-fest of a home in front of him.

 

He doesn’t feel like going. He woke up too  _ early,  _ nine in the morning. He would normally reluctantly walk away from his bed at the afternoon, where by the time he arrives Jeffrey would threaten him by putting a taking his badge away from him even though it’s a lie, no one would replace his job in this shitty small town. 

 

He's staring at the  _ once _ clean sofa and clean floors where Tina constantly bugged him to clean, but she isn’t here, she can’t tell him what to do. But the light streaming through the blinds, and landing on his breaking diploma, a diploma where he wasted away his life to on to only end up here. 

 

He slams the door louder than he expected. 

 

The scorching sun peeks out his the clouds, he welcomes it, he always loved the summer. High school days of him dipping his toes into lukewarm lakes, with earphones in as his friends that has faded away from him  _ years  _ ago talked his ears off. It’s a bittersweet memory, and it reminds him of the guy that looked close to the stranger he met yesterday.

 

It scares him. 

 

He kicks the stones, the gravel, sometimes he even manages to dig up the grass in the dry soil. Gavin is trying his best to ignore everything, he notices it, he had to live with it for quite a while that he learned to then it out into the background. It’s the little things. The lingering stares, the tiny whispers. The rumours the spread around the town,  _ oh look there’s that asshole over there, he’s only 26? Such a shame for him to be living here, I’ve heard he keeps everyone away, don’t get too close to him darling he’s a bit of a meanie, why is he a meanie? Well when people get closer— _

 

It’s makes him want to scream.

 

Because the rumours are sort of the truth. The vague sense of the truth anyway. But it’s getting on his nerves, leaving him to grit his teeth. It's only fueling him even more and more, he feels like punching something, maybe he’ll work out when he gets home.

 

“I’m fine!”

 

“You don’t look fine.”

 

The two voices catches his attention, both sounds familiar. He looks across the street, through the breaking sunlight and it strikes him. 

 

It’s Hank, with the stranger he met yesterday.

 

He should’ve asked his name, he should’ve, he barged into Hanks’s house without asking  _ his  _ name. But it would’ve caused more of silence to stir between them. He looks like he doesn’t do well small talk, he looks fragile, soft, fresh out into the real world. He looks organised, clean, it’s like every single part of his body from his combed hair to his denim jeans and the white shirt with a graphic print that he can’t read from this angle. 

 

He’s  _ perfect _ .

 

He’s the exact opposite of him. 

 

“You’re going to fall over Hank!”

 

“I’m not just leave me alone.”

 

He snickering to himself like a little brat. He can’t. Help it. He’s slowing down, watching them from afar as he struggles to get Hank to function as a normal human being. He feels bad for him almost, his mind goes back to the times where Tina took care of him. Is this what she had to suffer through? A giant toddler hungover, tired and hungry, wishing to go home and never wake up again. 

 

Jesus Christ, he  _ is  _ like that.

 

“Hank you almost—“

 

“Just shut up.”

 

He already stopped looking a second ago. There was a close callwhen he almost caught him watching. But he’s still listening, to the groans and the sighs that’s coming from them. It’s the little things that kept his morning from a mundane one to an okay one. 

 

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

 

“Hank you better not be joking cause you almost puked in me once—“

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Connor’s  _ trying _ his best. 

 

He’s trying his best to help him. He’s trying his best to keep calm and help his Dad who’s hungover and drunk. Poor him, but it's the consequences he has to live with. He narrowly dodged his second vomit, which led him bending over and puking at the dry grass besides the cracked footpath. 

 

He’s rubbing his back in circles, apparently that’s helps, at least from what he’s heard. He's looking around, staring at the desolate amount of people walking as he waits for his Dad to stand up. 

 

“Are you okay?” He says, trying to edge further, trying to make this whole situation just stillness besides the howls of the summer breeze. He watches him wipe his mouth, stands up and downs his plastic water bottle. 

 

“Oh god, oh god fuck no I’m not alright.” 

 

“You can call in sick I’m sure they can understand.”

 

“I’ll be fine.”

 

“But you just said—“ he stops himself before he can finish his sentence. He stops himself because his Dad is looking annoyed, pissed at him, because of this now he can hear the rustles of the leaves and whispers from people and it’s burrowing itself deep.

 

“I’ll be fine.” Connor watches him try to pull his face into a smile but it’s  _ killing  _ him, it’s weak and faint, he looks like he’s close to puking on him again. But Connor pushes through it, bites his lip as he nods at him, he feels bad, he should be resting at home, sleeping away for the rest of the day as he recovers, but he  _ knows _ that it won’t make it better, it’ll only leave the house filled with groans and complains.

 

He’s regretting everything with each step he takes, he tries to ignore it, tries to ignore to turn back and take care of his Dad like he did when he was 14, he’s trying, he’s listening to the whispers nearby talking about how they haven’t seen Connor around before and how’s he’s putting up with his Dad.

 

“We’re here.”

 

The building looks like it’s ready to fall apart, it reminds him of his Dad’s. The paint is worse though, almost none of the blue paint is staying on. Some of the windows are cracked, the wood is rotting and the whole police station looks so  _ small. _

 

Connor is tailing behind as he watches him walk up the rickety stairs, there’s only four, it’s barely off the ground but he swears he feels as though its breaking with each second.

 

“Come on,” he hears him say, then a chesty cough sends him into a fit that has Connor feeling sorry for him. He makes it quick as he goes in twos, he doesn’t want to stall this for long. 

 

He’s peering into the inside, through the chipped text that says “ _ Police Station”  _ and pass through the breaking blinds of the door. He doesn’t see much, he expects people bustling, desks, people on phones taking calls. But instead through the tiny thing he can see he only sees a stain on the carpet, a hole in wall and a faulty water dispenser.

 

Curiosity is clawing itself into Connor, so he decides to open the door that creaks and steps right in before his Dad could yell “ _ Connor! _ ” at him. It suddenly shifts, and it feels  _ depressing _ , bland, empty. There’s nothing in the hallway, it’s only white, white and more white.

 

“Goddammit Connor!”

 

He ignores it, and he steps further and further in. The hallway opens into a tiny room, only four desks, messy and unorganized, there’s boxes covering the one of the windows that’s supposed to breathe life and light into the dark and depressing police station. He hasn’t met a receptionist, there’s no one here, there’s not security measure, none,  _ nothing _ .

 

This is breaking so many rules.

 

“You could’ve waited for me.”

 

He tries to find his Dad’s desk, picking up rusted name plaque until he finds  _ Hank Anderson. _ Connor takes a step back, it feels like he’s staring into his personality, a representation. It’s dusty, there’s a stain of coffee that’s triggering Connor. His desk is full, too full, full of coke cans, papers, photos, a plant. But there’s only one space, a tiny space in front of the chair.

 

Maybe he should really tell him to get his shit together. It’s not too late, it’s never too late. A clean and organized work space is where people would start, he read it on a article. But he knows it won’t do anything, he’ll just agree to it, wave him off and forget about it.

 

But a part of him is looking into the brighter side, he just doesn’t know where it is.

 

“I know I should’ve clean up, sorry.” He watches him awkwardly take his jacket on his chair that’s probably been there for too long. He pushes everything to the side while coke cans falls from the desk.

 

“No it’s… fine.” 

 

“It doesn’t sound fine to you.” He catches his eye as he folds the jacket neatly, smoothing out the wrinkles and staring at the stains that’s probably been there for months. 

 

“No it’s fine Dad really.” He should've said it differently, now the silence between them is stretching further and further that can span from Detroit to here, here in the middle of nowhere, where police stations like these exist. He’s fidgeting, always fidgeting, right now he’s staring at his fingernails, digging underneath it, picking the tiny bits of dirt that somehow found it’s way underneath his fingernails.

 

“I um--”

 

He feels the whole floor shake underneath his feet as the door rattles open loudly. It sounds like someone doesn’t want to be here, they want to go home and they’ve been dragged into the police station. Their footsteps sounds loud too, it’s lazy, dragging their feet along the ground.

 

“Who’s that?”

 

“Oh it’s just Gavin.”

 

The footsteps finally stops.

 

“Who’s this?” The voice sounds harsh, loud. He hears a  _ click _ of a lighter, then a groan. When Connor meets their face it all comes crumbling down, and now he’s realizing how awkward it will be for the month as he looks at his eyes.

 

It’s the stranger from yesterday.

 

He still remembers it from before, how he closed the door on him, how he ran to his room. He’s doing everything he can to avoid any eye contact, he’s looking anywhere other than  _ him, _ he’s staring at the peeling paint, the mold in the corners, the bin near a desk which is full of paper.

 

“This my… son, Connor.” He hears the awkward cough, then an awkward arm is thrown over him. But he could see through it all, he thinks anyway. It’s all forced, the smile is forced. But he doesn’t understand, how he has to prove that he has a son, it’s all jumbled, jumbled and scattered all over the floor with no clear answer.

 

“Okay.” He hears him clear his throat, nod then puts his hands on his pocket. He feels the stranger’s eyes linger on him for only a second, and in that second alone the way he looks at him is weird and strange, like he’s looking at a mirror. Then, after the second which felt like an eternity, he goes back to forgetting what happened yesterday.

 

“What’s your… son’s name.” 

 

“Connor.”

 

Everything feels like it’s dragging on, too  _ long _ , too  _ awkward,  _ everything is awkward and it’s only his first day here in the middle of nowhere. He should have never came here, but the thought of what could’ve happened to his Dad makes his stomach sink. Maybe he should say something, ask something, ask his name, ask what he does here, anything to stop the silence that keeps falling.

 

“Connor, nice to meet you.” He holds out his hands, “my name’s Gavin.”

 

He sounds it out in his head, trying the name out, letting him say it as he appears in front of the door one more time.

 

“Nice to meet you too.” He looks at the warily, then looks at Gavin in the eyes. It takes too long, way too long while he hesitates for a second before taking his hand. It only lasts for a second and a half, but it felt like an eternity as he tries not to yank his hands back. 

 

He takes a step back, trying not to make is obvious. His eyes are looking everywhere again, but his eyes settle in the scar on his nose, quick to miss if you don’t pay attention to the features of his face, the beard that looks likes it’s been trimmed lately. But then, his eyes looks deeper, deeper than he’s ever been into those eyes, it’s dark, grey, dull. Gavin looks young, younger than the rest of the small town, but  _ why _ is he like this?

 

“I’ll be looking forward to working with you for a month, Sir.” He manages to snap out of it, only for five seconds, where he straightened his tone and cleared his throat. He’s trying, he only got a laugh from him, a dry and humourless one. 

 

“Why are you laughing.”

 

“He’s just like that Connor just—“

 

“Just leave me the fuck alone and we’ll be get along great.” Gavin suddenly shifts mood in a single click with his words, how he acts and holds himself. He watches him walk to his desk, ignoring like he doesn’t exist. It’s weird, strange, not making sense like everything he’s experiencing. Everyone is an enigma, he’s trying to figure them all out, full of weird secrets and answers that he didn’t probably doesn’t want to know. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Gavin’s still not over that the stranger, the kid he met yesterday is  _ here _ .

 

He’s doing his paperwork to get his mind off things, to stop his mind from focusing on the murmurs behind him. That  _ kid, Connor.  _ The person which closed the door on him and made his foot stuck is here, in the police station and he’s staying here for a month. 

 

It’ll be fine if he doesn’t bother him, they’ll pretend that they never see each other and act like ghost. Then Connor, that  _ stupid  _ kid who gets everything in his life into neat rows and who’s better at him in every single aspect will leave, leave this shitty town where Gavin can relax again and talk to Tina about her vacation. 

 

And both of them will forget  _ everything _ that somehow relates to each other. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I have to say, I am glad that you are here for work experience, but… why here? Out of all places?” He watches Fowler, the man whose holding this whole police station together, clean up the stacks of papers that could belong to cases, but it’s right there, out in the open as he flicks through them. 

 

“I came here because the one in Detroit wouldn’t accept me, my Dad lives here, I thought I could get work experience here? If it’s all right?” 

 

“Hank already told be about it all a few days ago,” he points the piece of paper at him, “I’ll be treating you like how I would be treating the other officers , you got that rookie?.”

 

He nods in response, looking around the small room, bigger than a small bathroom but smaller than small bedrooms that he’s slept in. The light that manages to seep through the blinds falls onto his palms, it looks pretty.

 

“I’ll have Hank go over the basics with you right now, everything we do around is here pretty simple.” Connor forces himself to smile, he’s thinking of the situation, the reality of it all is slowing drowning him as a whole. He won’t get  _ anything  _ here, here in this police station where everything is falling apart into dust. 

 

Coming here was a mistake.

 

Is it?

 

It’s been _years,_ since he seen his Dad’s face, his messy beard didn’t change, but his drinking problems didn’t change either. If he left, left in the middle of the night to never come back, he might break him open, he can see it, he’s slowly cracking open.

 

And it’s  _ scaring _ him. 

 

Please don’t go Hank. 

 

So he’ll stay here, here in the middle of nowhere, then leave to go back to Detroit and never see anyone’s face ever again. 

  
  


His Dad looks like he’s about to fall asleep, to fall apart right here and collapse while he’s working. He’s watching him bounce his leg up and down, sometimes holding the pen too right that he can see his purple veins pop out. It’s making him worry, biting the inside of his cheek. He looks so exhausted, tired, hungover. He shouldn’t bother him, maybe if he can ask—

 

Gavin

 

He doesn’t look busy, he’s probably going to waste his time away, looking through the blinds as he sighs and puffs. Yes, it’s better than asking Hank, he doesn’t need him explaining what to do when he’s ready to collapse right there in front of his eyes. 

 

He’s approaches him slow, past Hank’s desk, hearing the floorboards creak beneath his feet is painful. He waits a couple of seconds, hands behind his back, he’s just here to ask how things work around here because he’s new. 

 

“Fowler asked you to show me the basics of how things work around here.” He says, trying his best to sound polite. He doesn’t respond, only keeps to himself more, still looking out of the blinds, peeking through as he lets the bright light spill into the dark room.

 

“Gavin, I am asking you to—“

 

“Just shut up kid.” Gavin grumbles, like a child. 

 

“I'm sure it won’t take long, after all, isn’t this the part of your job?” He tries pushing him, just a little bit, not enough to push anyone over the edge. Nothing, he gets  _ nothing.  _ He watches him move his name plaque, align it perfectly to the sliver of light coming through so he can shine it on his eyes. 

 

“Gavin can you please go over the basics of the job I—“

 

“Fine, fine just…” he pauses, rubbing his eyes, “shut up I’ll do it.”

 

Then, he meets his eyes, grey hues twisting and circling, it makes him wonder that he’s seen, maybe he’s seen his life flash before his eyes, almost, maybe a knife slashed his nose, maybe that’s how he got the scar that’s easy to miss. 

 

He snaps out it, this is just a  _ stranger,  _ nothing more, nothing less, just strangers that’s forced to work together. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He only agreed to this so he can  _ shut up.  _

 

Gavin sometimes sees him looking, he knows he’s  _ looking,  _ but why? He’s staring at his nose, maybe it’s about his stupid scar. But when Gavin looks at Connor, he goes back to high school, sneaking into private properties, talking too loud while they  _ almost  _ get caught as they run for their lives.

 

He’s so much like his  ex back then someone he knew a long time ago.

 

But Connor looks like someone who’s a straight A student, polite, sweet, someone who could  _ never  _ do wrong. It’s what Gavin hated and wanted to be as his brother surprised him in everything while he sink lower and lower into—

 

Hell.

 

So he tries his best not to look too long, only looking at the papers on the desk, then at the pen that’s running out as he scribbles down things that Connor needs to do today. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He’s swirlinght emissions waters with his leg.

 

He should leave, get back home, it’s the end of his shift, he didn’t have any lunch break today, so he had it all at the end of his shift. Whatever the sunlight touches turns into hues of beautiful oranges, yellows and reds, soaked in saturation and warm colours. It’s too bright that even he has to squint. 

 

He gets up, staring at the spot beside him where Tina would sit. He’s getting the mud, dirt, sand out of his nails and palms as he stretches. Then he walks, walka through the tall grass and ferns, hearing the buzz of flies and feeling his clothes stick to his skin because of sweat.

 

As he steps out of the ferns and into the desolate streets. He’s groaning, groaning as the moss that clings to the back of his leg. It’s sticky, wet, it’ll be fine. He can run back home, clean it off and it’ll be—

 

His keys are at his house.

 

_ Shit. _

 

He wants to scream in frustration, to let it out all out. But everyone would look at him, it would travel by mouth and mouth, some would consider it as a rumour and words would come out as  _ has he finally snapped? I hope he’s okay I heard he has anger issues, oh does he really? I hope he’s okay, oh trust me he’s not okay he might explode soon— _

 

And it’ll turn into a cycle again.

 

He has no choice, he’ll have to go to Hank’s for an early drink. He didn’t want to go, he doesn’t want to plan going  _ ever  _ again. It’s not because of Hank, he hates him,, but he’s tolerable if he’s drunk and knocked out, it gets lonely sometimes, he’s pathetic like that, having to drink with the person he hates because he’s lonely.

 

He misses  _ her. _

 

But he doesn’t want to see Connor every time he goes back, it reminds him too much, brings too much memories of times he can’t have back. But it’ll be fine, it’s only one night, he can manage. He’ll stay there for an hour, stay silent as Hank babbles on and on about his problems as he stays quiet.

 

It’ll be fine.

 

He’s close now, he’s reaching the veranda, floorboards creaking beneath his feet as he feels something bubble in his stomach. He’s hesitating, thinking all about it. Maybe he should break one of his windows, he shouldn’t have to come here.

 

He knocks anyway.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  


“Gavin? I… uh.” This is awkward, it’s feeding into his anxiety, settling in the pit of his stomach until it takes over his whole body. He’s biting his lip, he should say something, anything to stop the awkward silence. 

 

“I’m sorry about the other night—“

 

“Just keep your apologies to your self, shut up.” He ignores him, acts like he’s not there walking past him, darting to the kitchen where his Dad is drunk,  _ again. _ Ha hates it, he hates seeing him drunk as he groans and laughs and complains. 

 

It’s hell for Connor, watching him drunk, always a balancing act, he might get riled up and get angry, or he might stay there, groan and complain about his life. Now Gavin’s in the mix, out of all people, he’s there, sitting across the table that’s held up by books. 

 

Gavin’s only sitting there, quiet, nodding a few times as he takes a swing of some cheap whiskey. His Dad is still blabbing on while Gavin sits there, d leaning on his hand, listening. A thought comes up this mind, quirk and sharp, on the spot. Gavin is his Dad’s friends, allowing him to babble everything about his deepest and darkest secret. At least anyways. Gavin’s  _ cares _ enough to listen to his problems, sitting there, listening.

 

His Dad has a  _ friend _ .

 

Friends look out for each other, maybe, if he allows himself to trust Gavin. Maybe he can look out after his Dad, just for an hour. He’s too tired, too tired to care. 

 

He let the dice rolls into the unknown, as he walks back to his room. His thought void of worrying about his Dad, about how he might pass out and never come back alive—

 

He’s fine. He’s going to be  _ fine _ . 

 

Connor tries not to think about him as he looks out of the window, wide open, feeling the cool breeze past by. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He doesn’t know why he’s doing this.

 

Connor manages to stop him, hand tight around Gavin’s wrist. He looks back, confused. He tries to open his mouth, talk to him, but it doesn’t come out properly. 

 

“Let go of me.” He grumbles.

 

He looks annoyed, confused, pissed of. His eyebrows are knitted together. He lets go, walking a few steps back as Gavin closes the door on him. It’s silent now, nothing in the air except Hank’s snoring.

 

He snaps out of it as he looks back at him, then runs out of his door, out into the night where the wind begins to pick up, carrying dust as it gets on his eyes. He runs down the hill, towards him, toward the hooded figure who is lighting a cigarette.

 

“Wait! Wait I have something to ask.” He finally catches up to him, blocking his path as he looks at him, cigarette lit, face saying _ not this kid again.  _ But he has a question, probably something stupid, something that can wait till morning. 

 

But he  _ can’t _ wait.

 

So he’s standing there, trying to force his words out as he looks at his eyes again, full of grey hues. He’s stopping Gavin, stopping him from getting home underneath a streetlamp where moths fly up to reach a light the can never get.

 

“Why, why—I uh… why did you come by? If so are you his friend because my Dad he hasn’t had one in quite a while—“

 

“Shut up, just shut your goddamn mouth.” He says. But it looks like he wants to say something else, ask for help maybe. If Connor stay here a bit longer mptheb maybe he can help Gavin—

 

“I’m sorry, I—I’ll—uh go.” He  _ feels _ stupid, he  _ is  _ stupid. This is a stranger, he stopped a stranger from getting home just for a stupid question. He’s walking back, hand on his pockets as he looks around the lonely town.

 

But the question still lingers inside his mind, bubbling every once in a while as they walk away from each other. 

 

He’ll have to get his Dad back to his room.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He hasn’t done something like this in a while. 

 

It’s been a while since he lock picked, it’s all fussy now inside his mind. Mixing up steps, forgetting what to do when he hears a click. It’s something he’d learned when he was a teenager, with friends as they break into stupid properties and sometimes steals.

 

It’s been so  _ long.  _

 

So now he's standing here because he didn’t ask Connor for help, arm aching, neck stiff. He’s wiggling the paper clip back in forth, trying to find the sweet spot. He’s sighing, he feels hot, there’s sweat dripping down his forehead, his clothes is sticking to his oily skin and he’s yearning for the cool summer breeze to past by again.

 

He’s so tired.

 

By the time he managed to unlock the door he’s ready to collapse on his bed.

 

He stumbles in the darkness as he closes the door behind him, his head feels dizzy, pounding with exhaustion as he feels him way around his house, making sure that he doesn’t knock over anything. He’s careful, but his body is ready to collapse and his legs are getting tired. 

 

So when he finally reaches his bed, he collapses, looking up into the ceiling, waiting for the blissful state called sleeping grabs a hold of him where he can’t  _ feel  _ anything for hours. He’s waiting patiently in the silence, he can only hear his own breathing. 

 

He forgot to text Tina.

 

But that thought disappears, dissolves as he succumbs to his exhaustion.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Connor doesn’t know why  _ his  _ eyes are something he can fall deep into.

 

It’s a thought, quickly fleeting into another useless thought that he’ll forget in five minutes.

 

He hopes anyways.

 

It has  _ to _ ,

 

But he’s curious, he’s only taking a small step forward into his curiosity, only a tiny amount, nothing too dangerous.

 

Why is his eyes full of grey hues so  _ addicting _ ?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. break open

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really, really, really like writing this. I just watched call me by your name to get a better feel of it and it's getting me questioning how to set this fic up. I want this to stand alone, not just be a re-written film or novel. 
> 
> Also heads up, I didn't want to put this into the tag because i thought it would be spoilers. But there would be a little 'love triangle' happening. In the film, elio has a girlfriend while he likes oliver. I want to do that but in a more subtle way. Idk. Thanks for coming to my ted talk.
> 
> Kudos, comments and feedback is appreciated <3 they are like fuel to writers

He’s should’ve gotten out of the bathtub a long time ago.

 

But Connor’s still here, sitting in the bathtub, staring at the tiny bubbles that’s slowly disappearing from the grey, murky waters. It looks disgusting, the water’s mixed in with dandruff shampoo and a cheap bar of soap that smell kind of like pine. It’s quiet in the bathroom, sailing the tiny bubbles that left in front of him with his hand.

 

The sunlight that shines through the window disappears momentarily, making the whole bathroom looks dull, damp, dark, until it appears again, landing on his hands. He doesn’t know why he’s sitting here in the bathtub, he should’ve gotten out twenty minutes ago, the waters gone bad, his fingers are all wrinkly. But something got him thinking as he sloshes the waters around, staring the tiles in front of him, some has flowers in the centre of it.

 

He’s thinking of Gavin’s eyes, grey hues, or maybe a hint of green, dark green, dark, dull. He doesn’t know why, why it’s stuck on his mind, those  _ eyes  _ that can hold so many memories. But it’s buried itself deep, it’s not showing any sign of leaving.

 

Admiration, yes, that’s why those eyes is stuck on his mind. He’s admiring it, admiring his eyes. But why? There’s  _ nothing _  special about it, it’s  _ only _  eye colour.

 

He hears the bird chirping outside, loud, probably above him. It cuts off his train of thoughts, making him listen to the comfortable, stillness of it all. It sets him back to reality, but his usual way of dissecting problems, figuring out equation  _ left _  him.

 

But something is creeping slowly, other features of Gavin’s face, he notices it all without realising it. The tiny freckles littered all over his face, possibly from not wearing sunscreen, running around in the summer days. Or his hair, wavy, messy, he probably hasn’t had a haircut in a while. It’s unkempt, wild, messes of wavy hair everywhere. Maybe he’ll find himself twisting the curls around his fingers.

 

His hands resurfaces, sending tiny tidal waves, ripples, bouncing around the bathtub. He sighs, rubbing his face with his wrinkly hands, trying to get his way of thinking  _ back.  _ Connor tries to pour water on his face, feeling the cold, murky waters dripping down his face, down to the bathtub again.

 

Why is he like this?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Gavin should’ve gotten out of the shower a long time ago.

 

But Gavin’s still here, standing under the shower, feeling the cool water rain down on him, snaking it’s way down his body, some on his back, collecting water droplets on its way until it reaches the floor, back to the drain, down the sewers it goes. The smell of a sharp scent of chemicals from the shampoo is making his nose hurt, he can’t get rid of it, he tries too, tries to overcome it by using the scent of flowers from the bar of soap.

 

The sunlight barely peeks through the tiny crack of the window in the very corner of the room. It leaves the bathroom looking dull, dark, damp. It's fine though, he doesn’t like the light making everything too  _ bright,  _ it makes his eyes hurt.

 

He’s merely standing there, underneath the shower head, doing nothing, only letting the water wash over him. Maybe it can cleanse all the wrong things he’s done, all the regrets, the things that’s plague his head. Maybe it can all wash away, down the drain, never come back.

 

But there’s something else he’s thinking about, in the stillness in his bathroom. It’s a thought, a thought that about a feeling, a feeling that’s tugging him closer to  _ something.  _ It’s like a call, a longing, a longing from a home, a call from home, telling him to come back even though he doesn’t know where the  _ home  _ is.

 

What a home is will be different to everyone, whether it’ll be a shack in the deep forest, a house someone lived in for twenty years, or maybe it’s something different, a person, a place where they hold them tight, never let go. It reminds Gavin of  _ him _ , somewhere in high school, who looks a lot like Connor.

 

It  _ scares _  him, all the random thoughts that somehow floats around his mind. They aren’t true, they are just  _ thoughts. _

 

He sighs, hands covering his face, closing his eyes, breathing slowly. He then puts it behind his head, staring at the tiles in front of him, some has grass in the centre. It sort of brings him back to reality, where he belongs. He shakes off the thought, forgetting about the  _ feeling _  only for a minute, it’s  _ stupid _ , this sort of thing doesn’t exist, it doesn’t exist, never does, never will, the call from home never  _ exist. _

 

Why is he like this?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He managed to piece himself back together, bringing back his way of thinking again.

 

Connor is outside of the steps of the police station, staring out into the desolate street. It’s hot, really hot, the type of weather where you would feel your clothes stick to your skin. Hank told him not to bring out the slacks today, calling him an  _ idiot  _ in his little hungover stare, it was better than the ones he had.

 

He’s wearing a plain, white button up shirt, something that he hasn’t worn in a while, stuck at the bottom of his closet. He has the top button undone, the sunglasses dangling from his shirt, he bought it for only a few bucks, it’ll probably break before he leaves and goes back to Detroit. He smooths out the wrinkles of his yellow shorts, then he fixes the white canvas shoes he’s wearing that’s too tight for his feet.

 

He hates his clothes.

 

He wants it formality, organised, cleanliness. He wants to wear his slacks with his formal light blue shirt that has sleeves cover his his entire arm. It’s weird, weird being in these clothes as he fans himself in a desperate attempt to cool himself down.

 

He wants inside, not inside the police station where most of the light is blocked off which leaves everything dark which was leaving him insane. He’ll rather be in an  _ actual _  police station, working, with an internet connection, uploading files, helping with cases. But he’s stuck outside, with nothing to do, watching the shadows of trees on the ground move.

 

Connor puts out a little book from his back pocket, along with a pencil that’s already halfway used. It’s what Chris, one of the only people that works in the police station, gave him, watching him shift positions uncomfortably as he talked to his Dad about the paperwork. Chris came up to him and gave him something so simple, yet something that can stop his boredom.

 

_ “Thank you, I really do mean it.” _

 

_ “You look like you were bored out of your mind, it’s the only thing I have, I apologise” _

 

He writes, whatever comes up to his mind. He writes, writes about the scorching sun beating him down, or the railings that’s rusted. He writes, with no intention in mind, only zoning out and letting his ahem flow words into the pages.

 

“Hey, kid.” It stops his train of thoughts, he hears the door rattle behind him. Then comes the footsteps, he already knows who it is.

 

“The fuck are you doing outside?” He hears Gavin ask him, but he knows it’s only to pester Connor, to annoy him with pointless questions. Connor sometimes think he’s doing it to make him less likeable.

 

“I’ve already helped all with all the paperwork,” he mutters, “is there a problem?” Connor focuses his attention to the words he writes again, focuses on the world around him as he writes mindlessly. He tries to think that Gavin isn’t there.

 

“Good for you, good for fucking you” Gavin says, sarcastically, at least that's what Connor thinks. He says it in a way that can anyone in a pissy mood. Connor watches him pull a cigarette out of the pocket of his cargo pants, then a lighter out of his other pocket. Connor watches him light it, putting it between his lips as the smoke billows above. He wipes his hands on his white T-shirt with the a name of a band he doesn’t recognise.

 

He ignores Gavin, getting himself stuck on his tiny book where he writes, writes whatever he feels like to get things off his mind, to listen to the distant roar of a motorcycle or the sound of children giggling.

 

“Good for fucking you… good for you.” He hears Gavin repeat the same words, but it's  _different,_ quiet _,_ distant in a way. It’s like he said something that meant something else, a hidden meaning in the tone of his words. But by the time Connor could ask something else, what it meant, he hears the shuffling of feet, each step moving away from him until it’s gone.

 

Then it’s just him alone, alone with the outside world. He sighs, putting his pencil and book to the ground. Connor stares up, up where he can see the sunlight cut through the green leaves, up where he can see the white, fluffy clouds. Maybe he can learn to appreciate the middle of nowhere, the middle to nowhere where he made a  _ stupid  _ decision to go.

He picks up his book, reading what scribble of words he wrote.

 

_ I sometimes think what can happen in life? Endless possibilities. Possibilities to possibilities. Sunlight, soft, crisp, calming. I watch it land on my hands. Then I get a little addicted, my mind says that I shouldn’t have flew too close to the sun, Icarus, what a fool, but it takes for just as single touch to get lost in… _

 

To get lost in what?

 

It’s stupid, whatever he wrote down. It doesn’t make sense, it’s a just jumble words thrown together. Maybe it meant something, maybe it  _ didn’t _ , it’s something he wrote in out of boredom, it’s  _ scares  _ him that it could mean something else.

 

He rips the page off, putting it inside his pocket as he goes back inside.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The cool breeze sets in again.

 

He sends ripples across the tiny pond, feeling the long reeds reach up to his calves, sometimes scratching him. It’s nice, quiet, gentle. He hears the sounds of cicadas, loud, sometimes annoying, but it’s something that he can put up with.

 

It’s calm, gentle, quiet in this little space he’s in. He’s away from the rest of the world, hidden by tall, large ferns. It’s like the forts he made when he was a child, pretending the outside world doesn’t exist, make up world's where he’s the hero, the saviour, the knight in shining armour.

 

But something is breaking his peace. He’s thinking about what happened, what he said a few moments ago. Connor was writing to himself, with a little book that you get in gift shops that only cost a few bucks. He wonders what he writes there, maybe some stupid fucking poems, a few short stories here and there. Maybe he should ask Connor, but it’s none of his business, hell, he shouldn’t even  _ care. _

 

He guesses that the book is probably filled with emotion, something about his life, maybe useless teenage angst. Why? Connor  _doesn’t_ need it. He’s a  _perfect_  teenage boy with  _perfect_ grades with a  _perfect_ life. There would be  _nothing_ that would go wrong for his life, he has it all set up for him unlike Gavin. Connor’s something that Gavin envied yet hated, it’s something that he wanted to have or burn it into the depths of hell.

 

There’s too much thinking happening for him, he rubs his temple as he lights another cigarette, lungs full of ashes as he inhales, feeling the little high he gets as he watches the smoke float up into the air.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He’s  _ trying  _ to make the old, busted radio work.

 

He wanted some noise in the background, something to listen to when he works. He doesn’t care if it’s a old radio talk show about white old women who talks about Christianity or a music that’s from the 80’s. He just wants  _ something  _ to listen to when he writes reports on the behaviour of the neighbourhood.

 

He tries to shift the flimsy antenna in away where he’ll hear something  _ slightly _  different than the monotonous garbled mess that’s loudly playing from the radio. He tries to lift it up more to the left, maybe to the right, or maybe it’s too high up. It’s a complex, weird equation he'll never get. He grumbles, maybe it’s in a place where it won’t get any signal, he picks it up and—

 

“Radio doesn’t work, there’s hardly any signal here.”

 

He takes another step forward, the radio unplugs, there’s silence again. He looks to his left, seeing Chris with a uniform, it’s weird seeing him on while everyone else is wearing shorts and T-shirt’s in this hot, scorching weather.

 

“Oh, I didn’t realise I’m sorry. How do you get any emergency calls, or calls in general?”

 

Chris sighs, shifts his weight to his other leg.

 

“We don’t, we get letters, it’s an old, small town Connor. Technology doesn’t exist here.” Chris walks past Connor, sits on his chair as he rolls his shoulders. Connor’s gaze shifts to the other desk, one that has the name plaque  _ Tina Chen  _ while he wraps the cord around the radio. The desk is surprisingly clean, nothing there except a few books, some folders, and a mason jar holding a couple of pens and pencils.

 

“Who’s Tina Chen? Where is she?” Connor asks to no one in particular, curiosity getting the better of him again. He hears the writing of a pen stop.

 

“Oh, Tina. She’s on a vacation leave for about a month, saying that she’s  _ ‘going to find herself for a little bit,”  _ Chris says, he hears the sound for chair shuffling, “she’s nice, she’s the only one that’s gotten close to Gavin in a way.”

 

Tina, the only person that’s gotten close to Gavin. It’s weird, something it isn’t adding up, like an equation with a missing factor. Gavin’s friends with Hank, at least he  _ thinks _  anyway. He picks up tiny details from talking which opens up more question, it’s  _ odd.  _ Maybe Connor doesn’t know enough about Gavin, Connor thought he was just an ordinary person who works in a police station with a little attitude problem. Maybe there’s  _ more  _ to him, hidden away by his eyes filled with dark or grey hues.

 

He stops himself from asking too many question to Chris, he’s probably grown sick and tired of babbling, asking question. Maybe he’ll ask his Dad when he gets back from the store. He sets the radio on the desk he shares with his Dad, sitting on his chair down on the opposite side.

 

He pulls out his book and pencil from his pocket, setting it down on his desk. Boredom is slowly creeping itself in, making his nonsensical words more drawn out, longer. He can’t write inside, it’s too dull, too lifeless, it’s just empty. Connor instead focuses on the movement of the pencil, slow, sometimes even stopping.

 

His brain stops working as he sighs, head slumped on the table. He’s still moving his pencil, sometimes pressing lightly, sometimes pressing hard. He’s probably made a scribble, a mess, something that he’ll throw away with a single glance.

 

He hears the door open.

 

He rubs his eyes as he sits up properly, he hears the footsteps increase in volume.

 

“I’ve bought some food,” the desk suddenly rattles as a plastic bag lazily thrown into the desk. Connor quickly grabs it, peering into the inside.

 

“What is this?” He murmurs, taking out a what seems to be a sandwich wrapped around in plastic. He carefully takes out the plastic, then he raises it up so he can see the ingredients.

 

“Something cheap made from the deli store,” Connor hears him say as he sits down, rolling his shoulders as he stares at the book and pencil layed out in the desk, Connor shoves it in his pocket. He takes a bite, chewing it slowly, tasting the flavours. It isn’t that bad, it’s better than the ones you get from 7/11 that’s expensive, cold, cheap, quickly put together.

 

“Do you like it?”

 

“No i-it’s fine.” He chows it down quickly, his stomach has been groaning ever seen breakfast, he hasn’t it eaten much.

 

“Oh hi Gavin.” He hears his Dad say.

 

He didn’t even realise he came in.

 

He should say something, maybe wave at him, maybe say how’s his day. Thoughts grow rampant as he chews on his sandwich.

 

“Shut up Hank.” But it was too late, he already sat down. He sets down his sandwich. It’s a perfect time to ask Hank the question, or maybe he can ask Gavin. Ask about why Gavin is staying over every single night, maybe he’ll find something, something to piece together with how much little he has. He opens his mouth—

 

“Connor,”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Go on a patrol, you look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

 

He chews on the last bit of the sandwich, wiping his hands on his shorts. It takes a little bit to him process it.

 

“But Dad are you sure you haven’t asked—“

 

“Go,” he waves him away, grinning, “go explore or something.”

 

“But Dad I already went outside.” Connor chews on his lower lip, hands clasps between his legs.

 

“Yeah, I don’t care. There’s nothing to do here, go.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

He receives a facepalm, then a sigh. “Connor just go, there’s nothing to do here.” His tone a little raises and annoyed, but he knows Connor knows that he only wants what’s best for him, to not be bored out of his mind, here — stuck in the police station in scorching hot weather.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay.” His Dad’s voice is somehow distant, he picks up one of the pens and starts writing again. He gets up to leave, stretching his arms. He looks around first, noticing Gavin is only mindlessly staring into a pencil, Connor quickly avoids his gaze when he turns his head around. Eye contact is too  _ dangerous _ , if he catches his gaze it’ll turn weird, avoiding each other again for the next two days, with something simmering underneath is all that  _ either _  of them is aware of.

 

Then it’s Chris and his Dad, who’s actually working. He feels bad, bad that he’s going outside, to feel the summer sun against his skin, to patrol around in the small town even though barely nothing happens here. He feels bad, because he’s getting to leave again while everyone is stuck inside in this horrible building.

 

It doesn’t matter what the thoughts are telling him, he already close to the door, walking in the plain hallway, hand reaching out for the doorknob. He looks back one more time, it’s stupid, he knows. He’s beginning to worry about his Dad again, he should be fine, he thinks anyways.

 

He tunes the doorknob, letting the light spill into the hallway.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He’s beginning to think that he’s slowly getting addicted to the small town.

 

It’s only growing on him slowly, only being in here for four or five days days. Days spent helping with paperwork, staying outside to feel the sun on his skin, sometimes the cool breeze passes by too, flicking the pages from the poems he writes about the weather to the short stories about random scenarios.

 

He walks along the pathway, staring out along the houses that’s different from his Dad’s. There’s gardens planted on the front, sometimes flowers, roses, poppies. There’s trees and bushes with blossoming with weird flowers he hasn’t seen before, it’s like a peach rose. It’s what the usual elderly would have, an old wooden house painted with the walls mostly painted with a bright colour. Maybe there would be old tea sets inside, antique or cabinets with windows so you could peer into memories capture into photos

 

It’s always clean, nice, maybe smelling funny. But it’s  _ nothing  _ like the house his Dad lives in. Although he isn’t that old it’s messy, sink filled with plates as it soaks into grey soapy waters. There would be bottles or cans of beer everywhere. There’s no special antique or some photos hanged up from the walls. It’s all messy and unorganized while having  _ nothing _  inside.

 

It’s fine though, as long as his Dad is alive.

 

~~ Please don’t go Hank ~~

 

He winds down from street to street, turning corners, staring at supermarkets that probably has expired goods, then to the tiny shops which sells coffee that’s too expensive or the flower shops that radiate a sweet smell. The small town is old, but it gives off a lively vibe, full of life, with children giggling and running across the street with their grandparents.

 

Down another streets it opens up to a small plaza, maybe the centre of the small town. There’s more people here, more mindless conversations floating about, most of them are about the weather or how their grandkids are. Connor finds himself drawn to the middle, hands in his pocket. There’s a fountain, not spectacular or huge like the ones you see in grand places. There’s scratches and graffiti in the marble that’s probably been there for years. The running water that’s supposed to be crystal clear is filled with leaves, a bit of algae and some pieces of plastic.

 

There’s coins in the bottom of the fountain, if he squints, he can guess how old they are. Some of the coins are rusted, drawn out and broken at the seams by water and time. Some are new, shining and reflecting the scorching sun. He reaches into the water, it’s warm, it feels nice to wade his hands in, giving some sort of relief to him.

 

Connor knows that he should be in patrol, walk around the mindless streets in this small town, to check for any dangers even though there hasn’t been any, he doubts there’ll  _ be  _ any. But the plaza cast a certain atmosphere, hot summer afternoon, strangers talking, the smell of roses being whiff away by cool breeze, open coffee shops which has chairs outside to look over the calm and lively scene slowly unfold before them called life. It’s feels  _ mystical _ , a secret, something that only a couple of people can see and only happens in a certain season.

 

He won’t stay for long, only a couple of minutes. He sits on the fountain, plugging his earphones into his phone, book opened with a pencil. He stares at the tiles on the floor, breathing through his nose, feeling the hot air burn his throat. Then he starts to write.

 

People slowly drift away back into their homes. He could sometimes hear the sounds of children crying, pleading for a single more minute, a little bit more, the taste of the outside just for a little while longer. Then the sounds drown out every so slowly, conversations quieten down, sometimes stopping, he hears quick goodbyes,  _ laters!  _ and  _ see you tomorrow!  _ echoes through the plaza. It’s constantly on the background, he’s too focused in his tiny little world, with the same song repeating over and over again.

 

So when Connor takes out his earphones to take a break he hasn’t realised that the shadows are long, like giant mountains on the ground. The sun is nowhere to be found in the sky, it’s hiding behind the buildings, it isn’t sunset yet, only an hour away. He sighs, facepalms himself then groans. He shouldn’t have stated here. A part of him blames the plaza. A part of him blames his music playing on repeat. But he knows that it’s because he’s too stuck in his little world.

 

Everything is bathed close to the sunset hues, not there yet, almost. It’s all  _ almost _  close to the hues of yellows, oranges and reds. Connor puts his book and pencil away as he stands up, he’s already imagining the scolding he’ll get from Fowler and from his own Dad. He’s stupid, so  _ stupid _ . Connor is  _ never  _ like this, he always doesn’t give into temptations. He shouldn’t have stayed for long, he’s such an idiot, panic is slowly settling in as he thinks about the worst case scenarios that’s unfolding in his little mind as he walks back to the—

 

He runs into someone.

 

They both tumble down into the ground, a couple of people who’s stayed is glancing towards then. Connor groans, picking up his sunglasses that he checks to see if isn’t broken. He slowly stands up, embarrassment settling in. What should he do? He’s such an idiot that he managed to forget the time and he ran into a complete stranger. Thoughts grow rampant inside his mind and it’s all from just a silly little thing—

 

“Oh my god I am so sorry I should have been more careful.”

 

“No it’s my fault I was—“ he stops himself from going in even further, it seems as though the earth stopped rotating, the time itself halted, and it’s just the two of them. Connor and Chloe, what is she doing here?

 

“Chloe?”

 

He gets a laugh from her, her blue eyes crinkling as she picks up the fallen books she got from the ground. It’s not adding up to him, this is Chloe, right here, in front of him, with her blonde hair tied into a messy bun.

 

“Oh I’m not Chloe, I’m her twin, Samantha. I’ve heard so much about you through Chloe.” She sighs, wiping the sweat on her forehead. Chloe didn’t tell him that she has a twin, they look identical, from little details of her face all the way to her arms. It’s weird, but he’s noticing the tiny little differences. Chloe would never show skin, she’s often too shy to show any.

 

Samantha fixes up her crinkled yellow crop top with her free hand, dusting off any dirt or dust. Then she adjust her ripped jeans that goes up to her thighs. She’s pretty, she’s the type of girl that would radiate a certain feeling that’s happy and outgoing, bold, wild. She’s the type of girl that’s easy to fall in love with, quick and easy with a single glance. Chloe isn’t like that.

 

“Where’s Chloe then, is she here?” Connor asks, feeling a tug at his heart when he watches her giggle a little for no reason.

 

“She’s not here, she doesn’t ‘feel’ like going to our grandparents. Apparently they’re too much for her.” She says. He finds liking her cute little gestures, her little question marks she makes with her hand, or how she moves her hand when speaking. It’s cute, he finds it cute, he doesn’t know why.

 

“I’m just here to help out with my grandparents, nothing really exciting.” She places her hand on his shoulder quick enough that Connor doesn’t notices it. She gives him a simile, a genuine email and happy one.

 

“You’ll probably find me walking around and running errands. I live near the deli shop, just to the left, come by if you want to, it gets really boring sometimes.” Then she lets go, turns his back on him as she walks away. She walked away too quickly, too quickly that Connor couldn’t ask question that was stuck between his lips, begging to get out.

 

Then she stops, turns around, then waves at Connor and yells loud enough that the whole town could hear her saying, “Goodbye Connor!” But now he’s standing here, out in the open, not knowing what to do. She’s cute, anyone with a pair of eyes and common sense would know. It’s weird, he feels his cheeks heat up and it’s a weird feeling.

 

Is this what falling in love feels like?

 

No, he won’t allow himself too. It’s a strange feeling and he’s not used to it. He doesn’t like emotions. They’re too finicky and complex to sort out, he’s only good at equations, sorting it out and clearly labeling it to make sense, anything other than that and he’s  _ hopeless _ . But now he’s here, falling in love with a single glance. Part of him is thinking rationally, but it’s overthrown away by  _ her,  _ all with just a few sentences and a single touch.

 

A part of him is hoping he hasn’t fallen in love.

 

Maybe he didn’t.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They sit at the opposite sides of the table, radio on the background which is barely working. Connor wanted it on, to fill the void. But now it’s playing nonsense. It’s weird, it’s awkward and strange as Connor plays with the microwaved meal they’re eating, he accidentally squishes the pea. Connor told his Dad that he should cook a  _ real  _ dinner, something that isn’t off the freezer and microwaves for half of the recommend time because he’s too impatient, leaving it rather lukewarm and not hot.

 

“So Connor how’s your day?” He hears him mutter, awkward and strange, it’s forced, drawn out because he knows that his Dad doesn’t like the silence that’s settling between them despite the garbled noise.

 

“If it’s about me not doing the patrol properly I’m sorry, I lost the track of time and I want thinking properly and I—“

 

“No, it’s not about that.”

 

“Sorry.” Connor mumbles, probably too quiet for his Dad to hear. He rethinks what he said a couple of seconds ago, making him stab another pea in half. He always mumbles nonsense when he’s stressed, going on a tangent, it’s a quirk, a habit he can’t shake off.

 

“But...” Connor suddenly picks up in the sudden change of tone, it’s teasing in a way, “I wanna know why you were smiling like a goddamn idiot when you came back.”

 

He drops his knife on to the floor, hiding his face.

 

“Dad!”

 

He hears him laugh like a goddamn idiot, chuckling. “Y-y-you we’re smiling like a goddamn idiot.” Connor hears his Dad coughing while giggling, wonder if he’ll choke or not. He hides his face with his hand, looking down on the floor.

 

“Who was it? Huh? Who’s the lucky person?”

 

“No one!”

 

“Come on you can tell your old man anything.”

 

“Your not even old enough!”

 

“Come on no need to be shy!”

 

“Dad! Shut up!”

 

It ends into bickering, laughing. None of them managed to finish their dinner, it tasted horrible anyways. Instead he avoids any real question from him by answering with nonsense, it bring even more chaos, descending into laughter and giggles.

 

During it all, the real subject of the conversations fades away. He thinkinking about how domestic this is. It’s been a while, a while when his Dad and him has laughed, laughed genuinely and not faked it. It’s been a while since they had a hang out, talk like Father and Son. What stopped them was his Dad’s alcoholic problems and ruined behaviour. That’s what stopped them from doing this.

 

It leave a burning, raw wound that’s gaping wide open. It dulls their laughter, makes Connor look down on his plate as he forces himself to chew on a piece of beef. Now the mood drops, it’s no longer carefree and laughter, now it’s back to awkward silence, stillness between them. There’s no more laughter, no more conversations. Nothing, nothing at all. He’ll probably have a nightmare about him and—

 

He stops himself from going any further.

 

“I’ll go clean up Dad,” he gets his plate, pushing his chair back as he gets his Dad’s. He carefully places it on the sink full of soapy water. He can clean up later, Connor already cleaned up the whole house from top to bottom, he couldn’t stand the dust that’s latches into everything that it touches.

 

He looks through the window, the sun is already down, everything is pitch black outside. He already knows that going to happen, His Dad would be pissed drunk again, Gavin would be handling his drink better. They would talk, talk for hours. He’s worried sick about him, Connor already knows that he’s pushing his health to the edge, his liver would slowly decay away and leave him dead.

 

Maybe he should stop him from drinking.

 

But the thought fades away as he walks back to his room.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Connor sneaks out of his room to check if everything is alright.

 

He hears laughter, drunken one, not the one he hears when him and his Dad was having dinner. He’s careful not to step on loose planks.

 

“Y-you know I’m just tired G-G-Gavin, I-I… me, I’m just sooooo tired of everyone’s bullshit!” It pains him to drunkenly day it out of his mouth, he’s hoping that it isn’t true, it isn’t real.

 

He hears sudden footsteps, he spots Gavin on the front door. Their eyes meet.

 

And in that tiny moment alone, as he stares into his eyes, he now he knows that it’s green, some sort of dark green. There’s  _ something _  hidden in those eyes, Connor’s curious, he wants to reach out and grab it whatever is in there, doesn’t matter if it’s in the deep end where he can probably drown and  _ never _  get out.

 

But their little moment is gone, it leaves Connor feeling stupid and somehow  _ empty  _ as he watches him walk away into the night.

 

“Connor!” It snaps him out of his little daze.

 

“Yes Dad!”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He’s smoking again.

 

Gavin doesn’t really care anymore. It’s fine. He’ll set his lungs on fire with the ashes. He’s puffs it a thick, grey smoke into the air, feeling his body tingle, the little high he gets. He’s on the top of the hill again, under the moonlight, phone on hand, trying to call Tina.

 

There’s enough signal to make it happen.

 

He thinks so anyways.

 

He hearing the same annoying sound all over again, ringing over and over again. Why won’t Tina just pick up? She shouldn’t be doing much anyways, it’s just a simple phone call, a call away from home. He’s groans, the sticky, hot air is making the whole night uncomfortable.

 

“Gavin! Where have you been!” The voice cuts out every once in a while, stumbling over words which the white noise fills in. It’s fine though, it’s been a long time since he’s heard her voice, she sounds happy.

 

“You haven’t texted me or anything, Gavin we had a promise that we were going to—“

 

“Yeah I know, I’m sorry.” He mumbles in the phone, he’s worried the connection won’t stay for very long, his words would be lost with the fading signal. He’s hoping that she can hear him talk into the phone.

 

“How have you been?” Gavin hears her sigh, then a quiet  _ thump _  and a little giggle. He wonders what she’s doing right now, spending a whole month away from this shithole must be fun, she must be getting pissed drunk, looking for anyone to have a quick one night stand. He  _ hates  _ one night stands, he remembers having them when he was in Detroit, quick flings but nothing else. He always wanted  _ more _ , getting intoxicated by their sweet nothings that Gavin knows that it means  _ nothing. _

 

Nothing at all

 

“Gavin?” His phone crackles and it’s painful to hear. He hasn’t realized he’s been silent, not realizing that he just opened a gaping wound for a whole minute. He rubs his temples and all he can think of is…

 

That boy

 

Perfect grades

 

Perfect life

 

Perfect everything

 

He  _ hates him _

 

He’s that time of boy that rises above everyone like his half-brother, he would leave everyone in the dust, become better, leave everything behind.

 

“I’m… fine, tired actually, nothing really happening around here.” He mumbles, taking another puff of his cigarette. He tries to shake off that  _ boy  _ in his cloudy and messy head. Think about something else. Subjects that him and Tina can ramble about, how her vacation is going. Anything other than  _ him _ .

 

“It’s been four days Gavin!”

 

“I know.”

 

“Have you been eating properly?”

 

“Yes.” He lies.

 

“Have you been sleeping properly.”

 

“Yes.” He lies.

 

“Have you been—“

 

“Tina you’re not my… Mother.”

 

“But I’m worried about you because I’ve been taking take care of you ever since—”

 

“Ever since what?”

 

The line goes silent.

 

It’s awkward, both of them not wanting to break the silence that deafening ringing inside his ears. He wants it gone, he wants the silence gone. If stays any longer then it’ll leave Tina talk about the forbidden things, ask why he’s like this, ask why he’s so quiet, ask why he’s not answering her question and avoiding it because the truth is Gavin doesn’t even know the answer.

 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

 

“I know you are, just go and get some rest, okay? It must be really late there.” She says, sounding annoyed. Then it cuts out, the line is gone, leaving Gavin sitting there, staring out into the open. She probably got too tired to deal with him, everyone always does, they come in and quickly leave him which leaves a wound, scars that can resurface in any time.

 

Tina’s one of the longest ones to stay.

 

~~ Please don’t go Tina ~~

 

There’s still so many unsaid things laying awake inside his mouth, wanting to come out. He wanted to ask her how she’s doing, ask for pictures even though there’s a couple of photos showcasing the beautiful view of a waterfall. Anything, anything that’s not related to  _ him. _

 

But now she’s not here, she might call back at best, maybe text tomorrow. But he knows that she’ll won’t text him anything tomorrow.

 

The promise is broken.

 

Just like every single one he carried into his fragile palms and like the ones he heard like sweet nothings. But he doesn’t want the promise to be a broken, a stupid and simple one and that, a simple text everything night. He  _doesn’t_  want to lose Tina, he’s holding onto someone for once.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Connor can’t stop thinking.

 

About  _ him. _

 

When he wants to start thinking.

 

About  _ her. _


	4. her with her laters!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first of, I don’t know if I put this here but like I’m not going to follow the call me by your name plot. Second of all I made a [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLi62L_eFGVjHSIaE8VZOJoPxjjAHXdD9P) which I’ll be adding to and changing, s9me of the songs won’t fit, most should. And third and finally, I actually suck at proofreading so sorry if this sucks.
> 
> Kudos, comments and feedback is appreciated

He’s sitting in the veranda on the steps, pencil in hand, book on the other. The early morning isn’t as hot as yesterday, his clothes doesn’t stick to his skin and the hot, sticky air isn’t here, it’s replaced with absolute  _ stillness.  _ There’s no breeze to lean into as he tries to think of a word that would fit into his writing. None, none at all. It’s just a very still, warm day.

 

His mind is still processing, thinking about it all, putting it into neat categories to understand it all. What to think, what to do, it’s all a mess and he can’t stop thinking about _her_. Those jean shorts that goes up to her thighs her yellow crop top, her _eyes_ , so pretty and so breathtaking. Her skin, it looks so soft and smooth. She probably runs around and goes thrift shopping with her friends in her hometown, feel the hot summer while she drinks a slurpee or a cola.

 

It’s a perfect girl, what guys envision in vision as a perfect, pretty and simple hometown girl.

 

He looks at the book, eyes scanning the jumbled up words and sentences that doesn’t really line up. He cringes at it, shuts his book and sighs, covering his face with his hands.

 

“Fuck.” He hasn’t said that in a while, something that special when things doesn’t make sense and it goes further than just numbers and body language. It’s something that he can’t think about it properly and it  _ haunts _ his mind for months and months on end. His nest categories slowly break down and it goes into error. Try again, rebuild and find the optimal answer to the scenario. He does it because it’s the only thing he’s ever _ known,  _ no more, no less. He’s just like that someone stuck constantly thinking.

 

He looks up into the clear blue skies, no clouds, no planes flying over head. Just pure stillness, like everything just decided to halt. He picks up his book again and runs his hands through  the cover. And tired to write, flips over a new page if he messed up a sentence, cross out letters that doesn’t make sense. It goes on for a few minutes until he gives up, it leaves his pages full of big, bold letters.

 

Saying

 

_ What am I doing _

 

Because he doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s a mess and it's hard to wrap his head around it. So he heads back inside and closes the door behind him, go into the kitchen, brew a cup of coffee for his Dad, do the dishes, clean the living room and dining room. Clean, get things off his mind because it’s too hard to understand, out of his realm.

 

“Morning,” he looks behind him, picking up cans of beer as he sees his Dad rub his eyes. He stink, he can smell it from the living room. He stands in the hallway, groaning and sighing.

 

“Fucking headache.” His Dad grumbles. Connor already wants to tell him to stop drinking, stop staying up, stop, just  _ stop,  _ please, just for him. He wants to throw away all the beer cans in the fridge, take away his wallet. Don’t drink, never drink again. It pains Connor to see him like this, stumbling forwards and almost falling, he looks at Connor like he’s fine, he’s alright. Act like it’s fine, push it away and act like he’s  _ fine. _

 

He wants to say: “Dad, please  _ stop,  _ just  _ stop,  _ stop drinking, let me  _ help  _ you.”

 

But the words that actually comes out of his mouth says: “I’m making breakfast.” 

 

“You are?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why? I-I can make it myself.”

 

It goes absolutely still. Connor looks at him in the eyes as he goes to the kitchen, getting a can of beer from the fridge. 

 

“Because I want to.” Connor mumbles, just loud enough for him to hear. His Dad’s face has a frown in his face, close enough for him to cry, or maybe shout and  _ scream.  _ He doesn’t know why, it doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t fit into anything. 

 

Another string of silence.

 

The light bleeds through the curtains, letting the dust dance into the light. It’s like a line between them.

 

Connor’s eyes dart back in forth to the ground, then to the beer can.

 

“Okay,” his dad nods, then puts back the can of beer and closes the fridge. It feels like a little bit of the weight was lifted from his shoulders. 

“I um… making some eggs and bacon,” Connor awkwardly moves around him, “I won’t be able to make much.”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“Alright.”

 

“Okay.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Where’s Connor?”

 

“Day off, Fowler told him to.”

 

Why does he even  _ care? _

 

He shouldn’t

 

But the question already left his mouth and he regrets saying it. He tries to ignore it, push it to the back of his mind. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He has the whole house, whole day to himself. Free, feel the summer sun on his skin or maybe wonder around the tiny town. But instead, he’s stuck in his room, sitting cross legged, staring at the dusty ground, deciding if he should clean again. The light shines and brightens up the dark and small, depressing room. He stares at the bag on the chair near the door, then to the wooden table that’s probably cheap and to his book, beside him, just sitting here, he hasn’t touched it since morning. He doesn’t know  _ why  _ he doesn’t want to touch it, it’s just a  _ book  _ filled with random words and sentences and the occasional story or poem. There’s  _ nothing  _ scary. There’s no ghost to pop out or a monster that hides in children’s imagination. None, nothing.

 

So why is he avoiding it?

 

He stands up, walks in circles, frustrated, why? He doesn’t know, doesn’t  _ want  _ to know. He never gets frustrated, the times he has means that he messed up with something or something isn’t making sense, it’s a rarity for him. So Connor walks out of his room, walks out of the house. He feels the breeze picks up and wonders cowherds it’s been. The heat picks up unlike this morning. He shouldn’t have gone outside,  _ hates  _ it. Normally he’ll be working on homework, reviewing his studies etc., but he’s here, in the outside, not knowing why.

 

His feet carries him to the streets without him even noticing. He gets people’s attentions, the quick glances, the whispers. It’s getting on his nerves, hearing the little things, the tiny words that instantly makes Connor thinks it’s about  _ him.  _ He could hear each breath echo inside his mind, going over and over again.

 

“Hi!”

 

He almost punches Samantha.

 

“Oh my god I’m so sorry,” she says and laughs and laughs, it sounds so sweet to his ears and doesn’t know  _ why.  _

 

“I could have punched you I’m so sorry—“

 

“But the,” she paused and hiccups and holds her stomach, “y-your face looked so weird!” He feels his face creep up with heat.

 

“I’m so sorry.”

 

“Stop apologising,” she calms down, sighs and looks at him, “I should be apologising, you looked like you were in deep thought there.”

 

“Yeah.” He laughs it off and he’s glad that she’s doesn’t know that he was freaking out, having a mild panic attack. He looks around him, there’s no one around the, just them, with the trees shading them from the sun. 

 

“So.”

 

“I’m… sorry, again.”

 

“Stop apologising Connor!” They start walking, just the two of them. But it tills stuck to him that she remembered his  _ name,  _ Connor. He smiles at her while she rambles on and on about her life.

 

“And like… they can just be so annoying.” He nods and just stays silent, not talking, don’t say anything, don’t mess it up. He wants to say about how absurd she is, how irrational or entitled she is. But he stitches his lips, grins as she looks at him in the eye. Don’t mess it up, only follow her around look at her as she twirls and spins around, then smile and look at her piercing blue eyes. It’s so  _ different  _ from Chloe’s, it’s focused and contained while hers is wild and free. 

 

How does she do it?

 

He ends up following her blindly, winding down streets and looking at funny paintings in fences. She looks like the perfect girl, so pretty. The type of girls that post summer selfies in instagram with her vintage blue shirt and her skinny jeans with her pretty sandals. Samantha fixes her blonde, wavy hair, then looks up at the sky.

 

“It must be hot in those.” He says, then points at her jeans.

 

“Are your flirting?”

 

“No I’m not! I’m just…”

 

“Just what?”

 

“It’s really hot! And I—“

 

Then she laughs again, or maybe chuckles, couldn’t tell. He smiles less than the last time, as he looks at his own clothes. Yellow shorts with his T-shirt from his a metal band that his dad gifted to him for Christmas when he was 13, it’s something that he threw on. Is it good enough? Is it okay? Good for her? He starts to compare it to her and starts to unveil everything—

 

But he couldn’t finish his sentence, while she tugs him by his hands and they start to run off again. It feels like they’re running away from the law, two strange teenagers who’s running the streets of a small town, why? There’s no rush. But he’s  _ still _ holding onto her when and blindly following her, no sense of direction, just a view of her blonde hair and her hand.

 

Now they’re in the plaza, the feeling the lively town buzz around. They stop, she pants while he wipes the sweat off his forehead. The plaza, it feels so  _ alive,  _ there’s bubbles in the air from children and the quiet chatter from the cafes. The fountain is still there in the middle, with strangers sitting there and taking photos.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she sighs, then looks at his outfit like it’s straight from the mud, “I… forgot that I have to…. help with… packing the furniture.” A quick smile, something that you probably do after you wave at someone.

 

Then she yells  _ Later! _

 

_ Later!  _ It’s informal, quick and simple as she leaves him in the plaza and runs off again on her own little adventure.  _ Later!  _ As in something that she says instead of a  _ goodbye  _ or a  _ farewell.  _ Just a  _ Later!  _ No wave of a goodbye, nothing, just a quick  _ Later! _

 

He couldn’t even say  _ how’s your day?  _ Or  _ how are things?  _ No time for that, she just runs off and it feels like he just wasting his time. Something quick, instant, a simple laugh and a couple of joke then she’s gone, with a  _ Later!  _ And she disappears. It kind of leaves a bitter feeling that he can’t explain, he’s not good with feeling, too messy and complex. 

 

Just a  _ Later!  _ Gone like the wind. With her blonde hair and summer clothes. While he’s stuck, still standing as he looks hems of his T-shirt.

 

She’s so strange, but she’s so  _ pretty _ . Like a goddess, the ones describes in books of Ancient Greek mythology. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He heaves another cigarette.

 

Gavin sits in his usual spot again, the same spot which is hidden away from the rest of the world. Only the time the light that’s supposed to reflect onto the mossy water is hidden away from the clouds, leaving the waters looking dark and gloomy. 

 

It doesn’t hold the same energy anymore, no dragonflies, no gentle swaying of the wind, no sun, none. It feels like someone taking out the magic of a performance or watching a special place change up. Only it feels so  _ different,  _ like it’s dead. The colours are all dark and damp now, no bright contrast from the sun, none.

 

So he stands up and drops the cigarette to the ground and steps on. He could go for a walk, a long walk maybe, an excuse to distance himself further and further away from his  _ desk.  _ With his pen scattered throughout and papers all disorganised, where everything is all dark and gloomy, barely any light coming through the windows.

 

Through the ferns and bushes he’s finally back on the streets. There’s no one he can see, only houses for the elderly, some of her houses are fully painted while some are rotting and breaking at the seams. There’s also trees, absolutely still, casting shadows along the ground. Then, finally, there’s something else, a bike, parked near a mailbox, fully pink with white strings coming off the handle. It reminds him of his sister’s bike, cheap and easy to break. But she didn’t care, she would laugh and ride it around the block and make friends and memories with the neighbours.

 

It’s the thought that keeps circling him as he keeps walking, where? He doesn’t know  _ where,  _ anywhere, just keep on walking, until he runs out of room to walk and he’s near the edge of one, narrow strip of road. Go right where he can hear the screams and laughs of  _ joy,  _ probably from teenagers who complain and whine. Then winding down a street, where an elderly couple is out in their garden, stands up and looks at him like he messed up. He bites his lips and quickens his pace. It's an endless cycle of walking, probably leading him to circles and where places he’s never visited often.

 

Until, just about as he was going to turn around and start to walk back again. The street unfolds into tiles on the ground and a fountain in the middle. Air is filled with bubbles, quiet chatter and the smell of iced tea. It feels like he’s walked into another world, with the colours all saturated and where children are running around and chasing each other. 

 

Then, in the middle of it all. A boy in shorts and a T-shirt is standing there, taking it all in with awe. He looks at him, he catches his gaze even though he’s twenty metres apart. Eyes connected, his green eyes with grey hues looks at him in the eye, it feels like time stopped just for the two of them.

 

_ Connor _ , goddamn  _ Connor.  _ With a perfect figure and perfect face with a perfect behaviour and a perfect life. Just a city boy from Detroit in the middle of nowhere. Why is he here? Out of  _ anywhere _ in this town, he’s  _ here,  _ stand there and staring at him. 

 

He grits his teeth and turns the other way, starts to walk away because he  _ doesn’t _ want to see his stupid fucking face. Walk faster, be an asshole like what people did to him and pretend they never saw him, just a misplaced glance. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Connor’s walking towards Gavin. He doesn’t know  _ why _ , his feet is carrying him and there’s a vague  question that he wants answered. But each time he takes a step forward Gavin just takes another one, maybe one extra or two. Didn’t he see Connor stare at him, look at him with his brown eyes as he stared back? He saw him, right? So why is he walking away, as they wind down another street and he follows him through random streets.

 

He starts running, hands reaching out. He’s closing the gap between them.

 

He can’t get his mouth to work, so he taps hm in the shoulder and looks at him in the eye.

 

“Connor?”

 

A beat passes, silence tense as the whole world goes past them. There’s a couple of strangers passing by. He wants to speak, say words out loud but now it feels  _ stupid  _ and  _ awkward  _ and words are too complex to say and word out. 

 

“I…”

 

“Look if you’re going to just fucking hold me up then I’ll be on my way.” Gavin looks at him, his eyebrows knitted and teeth clenched. He opens his mouth to speak, say words, say  _ something.  _ Say something that’s doesn’t feel formal or strange in Gavin’s ear, something that’s ‘ _ normal’. _

 

What he wants to say to him: “Why do you go to my house every night.”

 

But he actually says, stumbles and messes up his words: “I apologise.”

 

“For what?” Gavin takes a step forward towards him, he takes a step back.

 

“For—“

 

“Look, Connor.” He crosses the legal between them and points at his chest, “I know you want to be best fucking friends but I’m not interested, so don’t ever speak to me ever again.”

 

Gavin’s face is all tense, and his eyes is directly looking into his own. He’s glowering, temper rising. But when he opens his mouth to speak again, it comes up with nothing and his face soften, even just for a little bit. Then it goes back to anger and shoved him away wher he nearly fall into a prickly bush.

 

Then Gavin has his hand into his pocket, then walks away, like nothing ever happened. He looks around him, they all snicker and shake their heads. Whispers can be heard through it  _ that man has a problem, is he really like that? How can someone do that to a poor kid? _

 

But his mind still circles back to that moment where he softens, just for a little bit. It’s so  _ confusing,  _ he saw him staring right at him then walks away and now his face changed in a single second. From pure fire to a sudden face where it holds  _ too much  _ then back to fire again.

 

Why are people so hard to figure out?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Gavin almost said a word that could make him break, it was  _ so close  _ to slipping out.

 

He almost said: “ _ I’m sorry.” _

 

With a quiet voice. 

 

For what? Just to excuse his two words for being such an asshole, just two words to excuse himself, done, easy, just like that. His sons are all forgiven even though he  _ damn _ knows that he holds sins too much to count.

 

Just a  _ I’m sorry. _

 

_ I’m sorry. _

 

He stitches his lips tighter.

 

Fucking hell.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Connor still standing there, watching the world go around him. It takes him a five seconds for him go back down to the earth, back to reality where everything is slowly unfolding right in front of him, peeling away layers and upon layers. Piece by piece, but by bit, until it’s finally at the core and everything is  _ fragile  _ and  _ raw.  _

 

He doesn’t know where to go. Back home? It’s suffocating in there. Around the plaza? He feels to uncomfortable and it remind him too many  _ Laters!  _ Too many decisions, too much circling and bubbling. At this point he wants to be in a desk, inside as he does countless and countless amounts of paperwork. 

 

Where to go? He asks himself that question as he starts to walk around again, head down, listening to the whispers near him. Keep walking, down another street, turn a corner. It keeps getting more isolated with each step he takes and the houses starts to slowly disappear.

 

Now what’s around him is just grass, trees and tall reeds that’s goes up his chest. The road stops, turning into gravel. Go up any further and the ground dips. He walks further and further in, feeling the grass go up to his ankles as he sits down, staring at the pond right in front of him. 

 

The water isn’t mossy, it’s looks clean and clear, reflecting the sun above him. He reaches out, touches the water as it sends ripples across the pond It’s cool, not freezing or hot to his fingers, just the right amount of temperature. The sun keeps hiding in out and out the clouds, bathing everything with light and making the water sparkle, and then making it dark for just a little bit again. It constantly repeats as he looks over the waters, waves away flies and wipes the sweat of his forehead.

 

He feels like leaving, go back home, stay inside his room where he would do  _ nothing  _ except stare at the ceiling. Connor feels like a mess, chaotic, not organised or well kept. His hair is already messy, there’s sweat dripping down his forehead and he already got a stain on his shirt. He should go back home, clean himself up, reorganise himself. But  _ something  _ draws him to the lake, where they might be snakes or crocodiles that reside in the area.

 

He really should leave.

 

Go back home.

 

His mind is spelling him all that.

 

But he’s stays.

 

He stays because he’s not used to the hot, summer weather. He’s stays because the lake and the still air is something different.  _ Different,  _ out of the ordinary. It’s something he avoids like the plague. But he can’t avoid it forever right? He’s avoiding the inevitable and he can’t do that forever. So now he’s experiencing something that’s out of his comfort, something so silly like this. Live a little, live in the edge. That’s what all he’s hearing around him to not just be a boy with good grades and over polite behaviour while being awkward with conversations or small talk.

 

They all told him to have some personality, some life. Crack some jokes, laugh, giggle, indulge in sweets or stay up past his bedtime, go to parties where teenagers get wasted and drunk. What’s wrong about him? Him being him. Connor being Connor. But something as simple as this brings him closer to…

 

What?

 

He doesn’t know.

 

Time passes, shadows grow longer and the longer he stays there the longer he finds himself staring at the grass in the water, or the little river that stems from it, to the right, hidden away by thick bushes and grass.

 

He finds himself staring that he starts to become unaware of his surroundings.

 

Like the footsteps behind him.

 

“Hey,” the voice is soft and gentle, he quickly remembers who it’s from. 

 

“Hi.” He mumbles.

 

Samantha sits next to him, sighing as she leans back on her arms while he sits cross legged. It feels weird that he’s sitting so tense, cross legged. While she’s sitting relaxed and free, he watches her with the corner of his eyes, she leans into the tiniest winds where it ruffles the leaves and dips down near the water and makes ripples appear all over the lake. 

 

He shines he could be like her.

 

It’s silent between them. It’s supposed to be relaxed and carefree, but it feels like he should say something, anything. Bring up a topic. What are you doing here? How’s your day? How’s your Grandparents? How is Chloe? Those type of questions he wants to ask as if circled in his head and it’s starting to get full. 

 

Connor bites the bullet, he bites his lip, “how's your day?” He said it, it’s out there something he wanted to tell her.  _ How’s your day?  _ What were you doing all day? What did you do? Are you tired? He wants to know what she did as she looks at him in the eye, smiling. She looks so pretty, so beautiful, is she going to answer? 

 

“Good.” She says like how she would say  _ Later!  _  It’s something that she says that she doesn’t really care about, not sounding so interested. Will she say that back? A simple question. Communicate, talk, ask him a question? She wants him to say that back, have a conversation, isn’t that what relationships are like? 

 

What does a relationship feel like?

 

_ Why is he thinking about relationships. _

 

_ He doesn’t know. _

 

_ Connor doesn’t want to know. _

 

He opens his mouth to speak, say something, but when she sighs and groans he closes his mouth. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk, just what’s silence and peace. No talking, just the lake and the two of them. That’s okay, that’s fine, he’s fine with that. 

 

Samantha stands up, sighing as she stretches her arms. She then looks at Connor, he looks at her too.

 

“Do you think the water is cold?” She says, something out of the blue. But then he watches her take off her clothes, taking each of her clothes but by bit, revealing more and more of her skin. The sun shines on her skin and it shows every single  _ detail,  _ every mile, every skin. She’s so  _ pretty _ . She laughs while Connor gets concerned as he stand up and opens his mouth to speak, but then she just shrugs her shoulders she takes off the rest of her clothes and hopes her way to the water. She almost trips as she goes further and further in.

 

“Samantha!” He yells out, but she simply giggles and laughs, looking around the grass on the water or the trees around them.

 

“Come on! It’s not too bad,” she laughs and splashed water towards Connor which nearly gets him, “it’ll be fun trust me!”

 

“I’ve heard there were—“

 

“Connor!” She whines, “you’re no fun! Relax, live a little.”

 

_ Live a little  _

 

That’s what’s everyone’s been saying. 

 

So he will, he will live a little, he’ll do it just for her. Going into the lake for a little bit of a swim isn’t that bad, it won’t hurt him. It’s not that harmful or dangerous, he’ll most likely get his clothes wet but it’ll be a small price to pay to see her smiling and laughing. Just a swim, it won’t do much harm.

 

He’ll do it just for her.

 

He awkwardly stands there as he begins to slowly take off his shirt, hesitant as he pauses every once in a while. He suddenly wants something to fiddle with, something to ease his mind as he squeezes his hands into a fist then back. Now it’s time for the shorts, he tries his best to avoid her gaze, slowly it gradually goes lower and lower, getting slower with each second.

 

“Hurry up!” She swims away from him and it feels as though he’s getting left behind, last place, left behind in the house. It feels like she’s running away from him and she’s not waiting for him, he stop slow. It leaves an unsettling feeling inside his chest, he bites his lips and takes off his shirt and leaves it on the grass.

 

Then he dips his feet into the water, hugging himself as he goes further and further into water until it finally goes up to his shoulders. Connor looks around, chuckles quietly as he looks at the water as he cups it into his hands and washes it over him, then looks back behind him where gravel street is. Then,  _ finally _ , he looks at her in the eyes, blue like the ocean but not like the lake where it’s a different kind of colour. It’s almost clear but also a hue of green, probably from algae.

 

They’re a meter away from each other, he wants to close the gap, he doesn’t know  _ why,  _ he just  _ wants  _ to _ ,  _ He wants to lean in close and feel her soft and gentle skin against his thumb. But he doesn’t, the thought is daunting so he drowns it and keeps his distance. They keep staring at each other, the stillness stretching for miles and miles. Will she notice how he did this for her? How this is all new and weird to him and he entire out of his comfort to dip into waters that may or may not be home to crocodiles. Will she notice it all? He’s trying his best to show it on his face, on his eyes as he keeps staring at her.

 

“I haven’t really done anything like—“

 

“We should play something, ” she gets close to him, then swims away and laughs herself silly, completely ignoring what he was going to say, “oh I know! Marco Polo! I’m it first.” Connor watches her close her eyes.

 

“Marco!”

 

“Polo.”

 

She moves closer, smiling as he slowly and silently swims away from her. This is fine, this is fun, it’s something simple, a game you would play when you’re a kid in the pools with floaties to keep you alive. Now it’s just the two of them, Connor and Samantha, a boy and a girl, playing Marco Polo in a lake in a small town in the middle of nowhere, half naked in their underwear.

 

“Marco!” She waves away the flies in her face. 

 

“Polo.” 

 

He managed to dodge her hand, he’s closer to the tall grass now. He’s trapped if he isn’t careful, she groans as she splashed water in all directions.

 

“Marco!”

 

“Polo.”

 

She stops, then launches herself forward. He manages to get caught, her hand grabs a hold of his chest. She yells in joy as she opens her eyes, rubs her eyes while he looks at him in the eyes.

 

“I got you,” she chuckles.

 

“Yeah.”

 

But he won’t tell her that he did it in purpose, that he wanted to see her all happy and and smiling with her bright eyes piercing his. He could have sent the game into an hour long, maybe two, spent dodging and weaving her attempts to catch him.

 

He won’t.

 

“I got you,” she fixes her bra as she creates some distance from him, “I actually got you, I-I thought it’ll just be me waving my arms around for thirty minutes straight.” He laughs at her joke, moving his hair out of his way so he can see her smile to the skies.

 

“Okay,” he sighs, shaking his head, “guess I’m it.”

 

Then everything is bathed in pitch black, nothing to go by but the water wrapping around him, the sound of birds flying away and the sharp smell of salt and trees. He feels the crisp air burn his throat, he inhales and exhales. 

 

“Marco!”

 

“Polo!”

 

To his right, in front of him. He moves slightly off course, making it look like Connor doesn’t know where exactly she is, he hears a quiet giggle from her.

 

“Marco!”

 

“Polo!”

 

It’s slightly faint, more quieter this time. Is she getting tired? It’s in the exact same direction again, he moves of course again. He feels the ground beneath him, dirt and rocks at his feet. 

 

“Marco!”

 

…

 

Nothing.

 

It’s absolutely silence, stillness, maybe she’s really exhausted, or just playing games with him, just not saying a word and just straight up cheating. He smiles, he can still find her, he’ll surprise her.

 

“Marco!”

 

Nothing again.

 

Somewhere to the right, no, she probably moved, she’s to the left, getting as much distance as possible. He has to admit, she’s sneaky and quiet to move in the water.

 

“Marco!”

 

Nothing.

 

A thought is slowly growing in his mind, nagging the back of his mind. Maybe she’s in trouble, or in pain or needs his help. Maybe Samantha is silently crying because she almost drowned or badly injured herself, it feels like something bad just happened and he just doesn’t know No, she’s fine, she’s just quiet and she’s just cheating, probably giggling herself.

 

“Marco!”

 

Nothing.

 

Nothing again.

 

Panic rises in his chest, something bad happened, he knows it, the feeling is in his chest and it’s  _ suffocating  _ him. This is bad, she doesn’t stay this silent for this long, it’s scaring him.

 

“Samantha this isn’t funny!”

 

He opens his eyes.

 

He hasn’t noticed that the shadows grow long as the beautiful hues blinding his eyes, it’ll take him about a couple of seconds to get used to it all. He looks around, he’s near the grass where he can feel the ground with this feet.

 

He looks around, getting out the water as he picks up his shorts. She’s not  _ here,  _ gone, nowhere to be seen. Did someone take her away? No, if they did her clothes would still be here, but it’s gone, it was on the grass which laid next to his clothes. It’s gone, her clothes are gone and it’s only him, the lake and the setting sun, just the three of them, but no  _ Samantha. _

 

Is she’s okay?

 

She’s fine, if something bad happened to her she would have made a sound.

 

But.

 

It means she left.

 

She left without telling him, leaving him alone in the water. She left, went home, not bothering to tell him he’s going or not even saying they should go back. No, there’s not even a  _ Later!  _ None, not a single sentence or word, she didn’t even care enough to say  _ Later!  _ She just simple stood up and left.

 

But maybe she had to rush home, maybe, she lost track of time and had to run back home with no time to tell him otherwise she’ll be in trouble. Yeah, she did that, she won’t do that to him, she’s not like that. Samantha is an outgoing and hyper girl, she won’t leave him alone with no answers while she goes on her way on another journey.

 

Now he’s walking himself back home, with his wet shorts and damp T-shirt and his shoes. It’s cold, wet,  _ uncomfortable _ with the sun drying him, casting a long shadow on the ground. He walks slow, because it feels like his heart is torn out. She just simply  _ left,  _ she could have yelled a  _ Later!  _ And it would have been fine for him.

 

But she just stood up,

 

And left him.

 

Connor hopes Samantha isn’t in trouble. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Everything is slowly turning dark, the shadows starts to disappear and reappear again by the flickering street lights that’s barely working. He’s close to home now, he can see the tiny hill where the house sits. The sun is now slowly sinking into the horizon, deeper and deeper, the trees hiding the clouds with beautiful hues with pink, reds and yellows. Darkness is now slowly creeping into the sky, he seeing people, strangers slowly disappear from the streets.

 

He’s all alone in the streets now when he’s a street away from his Dad’s house.

 

Or maybe he needs to turn right, or maybe he missed a street. He doesn’t know, his thoughts grow rampant and he grows stressed, he  _ should  _ know how to get home, his Dad told where the street the house is in, he told him, just this morning as he watched him stumble and try to get rid of his hungover. But he’s  _ forgotten,  _ he never forgets anything, he always remembers.

 

But he forgot like an idiot.

 

He can still see the hill, peeking from the rooftops of houses. It’s just there, at the top, it’s like it’s taunting him. He starts walking, faster than normal, underneath the street lights, past the house where there’s a rose bush that peeks through the fence, down the corner, left, right.

 

Where is he?

 

Connor’s slowly panicking and wants to call for help, but he’s too stubborn for that. There’s tears in his eyes and he  _ doesn’t do that _ . There’s never tears in his eyes, no crying, none, just a neutral face, nothing more. He starts walking again. Hoping that he gets somewhere, close to his house.

 

But he sees someone, a figure.

 

Ten metres away from him, in the corner of the street, underneath a street light. 

 

He can see the scar on his nose, so small that anyone can bypass it and look over it. But Connor can see it, squinting as the figure look around and he can see his full face.

 

It’s Gavin.

 

Connor watches him puff a cloud of smoke, billowing above him. He looks around, then drops it to the ground and steps on it. He’s going to Dad, he should be, get drunk and vent and vent as Gavin only sits there only nodding and taking a couple of sips from his beer or whiskey.

 

So he follows him.

 

Not to close or not to far. He does this by keeping out of street lights, making sure to hide behind trees. He feels so stupid and so ridiculous but he’s too stubborn to walk up to him and say ‘ _ I can’t find my way home’.  _ He’s like that, too stubborn to ask for help, figure things out on his own, don’t ask for help, suffer on his own and stress about it for hours on end.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Gavin stops, looks behind him as he wipes the sweat from his forehead.

 

He thought he heard something, maybe a crack of a twig or the sound of faint footsteps. But behind him there was _ nothing,  _ just trees and the sound of a happy family inside one of the houses, laughing and talking about useless shit like  _ how’s your daughter  _ or  _ I haven’t seen you in ages.  _

 

It makes him all bitter and make him grit his teeth, making him forget about that  _ noise  _ he heard. He takes his eyes off the window where the lights floods outside, turns around and starts walking. In a town full of old people where every once in a while, every summer the town suddenly feels more  _ alive  _ because of relatives coming over. It reminds him back of  _ home,  _ that stupid city called  _ Detroit.  _ It reminds him of a time where he was in a house, laughing and talking nonsense.

 

Fuck that, fuck this, fuck it all, fuck summer, fuck that stupid house for making him remember all the little things he once had when he used to be in highschool. It fuels him with anger, a different type of anger, pettiness, sad. 

 

He kicks a can, sending it away as he breathes in and out, watching it fly to the sky.

 

After a moment he never saw it again.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He sneaks into his room as he heads inside, he’s already hearing the voices. It’s all slurred, words are swapped and his Dad sometimes stops to think a couple of times. Connor takes one final look, one single peek as he peeks his head in the living room, he can see them, just the two of them.

 

“Connor!” His Dad yells, he awkwardly walks forward. He catches Gavin’s glance in the corner of his eye.

 

“Hi.”

 

“You,” he points at him and he feels dread starts to claw at him, will he yell at him? He’s home way too late and he must be sick, worried, “Connor! Y-y-you… where did you go?”

 

“I…”

 

“Hank leave your poor son alone.” It catches him off guard. He looks at Gavin, his lips is pressed into a thin line. Their eyes meet for just a second, only a moment. But it feels like he just looked at his eyes for a mere eternity.

 

“H-h-he didn’t come back at the time he!” His Dad stands up, stumbles forward as he tries to reach for him with his hand carrying a can of beer. “Connor? W-w-why d-didn’t you come--”

 

“Come on Hank leave him alone.” He looks a Gavin drag him away, making him sit back down. It takes him a few seconds, just a few seconds of him staring at his Dad’s horrible state, he stinks of beer and looks like he could get lost in any second.

 

After the few seconds he counted in his mind, he walks away, bites his lip as he walks back to his room, shuts the door, opens the wardrobe. He flicks through clothes, one by one, from T-shirt to slacks. His damp clothes is uncomfortable and keeps sticking to his skin.

 

But out of the corner of his eyes, at the back of the wardrobe, he spots a photo. He reaches out and takes it out into the moonlight where he can see.

 

It’s his Dad.

 

He’s smiling, laughing, something he hasn’t seen often, it’s just a happy and simple photo of him laughing, with the ocean behind him. In the bottom corner there’s a month and a year, and three words.

 

_ April 2012 _

 

_ I love you _

 

It’s so different from now, in the photo he’s looking like he’s having the time of his life, free and so happy. But right now he’s drunk for a couple of days straight and it’s starting to worry him, it bleeds into his thoughts every once in a while as he sees him in the morning or when he sees Gavin walk out of the door. It lingers for a couple of seconds, just at the back of his mind.

 

Will he be alright?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Gavin.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Thank you, and I’m sorry.”

 

“For what?”

 

“For earlier, and for now.”

 

Connor watches him disappear as he closes the door behind him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ It’s a picture of Tina, looking all scared and terrified. It’s something he never seen before, she’s always centred and calm, but it’s so fucking different to see her look all scared shitless. She has a reason to be, she’s literally near the ceiling, climbing a rock wall as she looks down from the camera. _

 

_ “Gavin you told me to conquer my fear of heights you dipshit.” _

It’s so different from the other messages she sent, all caring and loving like an pinterest quote that makes Gavin cringe. But he quietly chuckles as he looks at the cracked screen of his phone, take a cigarette from his pocket as he puts in his mouths as he typs out a reply.

 

_ “You know what Tina? Because of that fuckin photo I’m not smoking. Be proud of me.” _

 

He takes out the cigarette from his mouth and stares at it for a moment before he throws it away as the wind takes it away. It’s all for Tina, she should be proud, doing it all just for her. Gavin sighs and groans, watching it send with the signal only being one bar, one bar that’s stands between Tina and a message. Just a message, a stupid message.

 

But he wants that stupid message to send.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


A thought, so quick that if he isn’t careful it could flyby and be another one of his useless thoughts. But somehow, the thought stuck out to him and now he’s reading it over and over again so he doesn’t forget it. 

 

_ “For what?” _

 

Two ordinary words, he doesn’t know why it stuck out to him, maybe Gavin said it. But the way he said it with his lips looking like it wanted to say something  _ else.  _ Something that isn’t just two words with his tone sounding all annoyed.

_ What  _ did he want to say?

 

But his thoughts go to a stop as he looks at his Dad, passed out on the sofa as Connor picks up after him, cans, beers, all in the bin, wiping down tables and sweeping the floor. 

 

But the thought still lingers.

 

_ Why  _ is he even thinking about it?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. If not later, when?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ THIS  
> There is HEAVILY IMPLIED SKIPPED SMUT OK THANKS anyways im starting to not liking this fic? idk i deleted a lot of stuff from this that like absolutely did not make sense, its the reason why its a lot shorter. hopefully ill start to like how the direction is going with the way the story will be going on in the future, idk. 
> 
> Kudos, comments and feedback is appreciated <3

  
  
  


His Dad looks at him weirdly.

 

Connor can see it, from the side glances that lingers to his hands to the quick stares that last for only half a second. It’s weird and it’s confusing him, can’t put it into a neat little formula to work out the problem and produce an answer. He has an idea, only a pronumeral, but that’s about it. A vague idea, something so fleeting and feels like only a fraction of the answer which is far  _ worse _ than being wrong.

 

Dust dances in the morning light from the tiniest cracks from the blinds, to the loud clinking of the plates in the sink in the kitchen where it’s messy and dusty. It’s 10 in the morning, far too late for Connor to be up, but his Dad is struggling to move around. Groaning or rubbing his temple, almost knocking over things or almost puking into the sink. He watches him in worry, Connor sitting in the table, eating a piece of bread with butter to the side, eyebrows furrowed.

 

“Do you need help because I can--”

 

“I’ll be fine,” he mumbles under his breath, not bothering to turn around and face him, he’s not like he was yesterday or the day before. He’s  _ different,  _ only adding more and more variables. 

 

So Connor watches him. Feeling weird and confused while being worried. How he doesn’t bother to look at him, not bothering to sit next to him, Connor watches him walk away with his cup of coffee and a cigarette in his mouth. He hears the loud  _ thud  _ from the front door, then it’s absolute silence, deafening, ringing in his ears.

 

_ It’ll be fine _ , something distant and in the back of his mind, as he does nothing but blankly stares at his plate, it keeps repeating over and over and over and over again.

 

Connor sighs, rubbing his eyes, taking a bite out his piece of bread as thoughts grow more and more. Something that he has trouble with, it keeps growing and growing at times to the point where it swallows him whole. 

 

He bites his lip.

 

It’s going to be a long day

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


As Connor gets up to walk to the sink, there’s a rattle in the window in the living room.

 

He drops his plate into the sink, walking closer to the window. It can’t be just random noise.

 

There it is again, this time louder and more demanding. He goes onto the sofa that’s on the wall, pulling up the window, it’s heavy and dusty. He groans as he sees the random lollipop wrappers, bottle caps, old random coins and a thick sea of dust sitting on the window sill. Connor makes a mental image on his mind to clean the window later.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a pebble going straight towards him. He peers his head forward, quickly catching it on his right hand. Someone threw it, they’re hiding behind the tree that’s twice the size of the house with little marking in the middle, or behind the random junk like broken chairs or sofas that’s thrown into the back of the house.

 

“Whoever threw it come out!” No one answers, he sighs, throwing the rock into the tree. He knows it’s just some prank, someone having spare time. He looks up into the sky, no clouds, only the bright, blue sky with the hot sun beating down on the town.

 

“Connor!” There it is again, that  _ voice, _ exploding with  _ Samantha _ . Just pure happiness, sweet like honey, bright, brighter than any colour there is. It’s just a simple word that she said yet the way she  _ said it  _ makes it sound like  _ her.  _ How she whines into it, a little too loud while she waves at him with her whole arm and hand as he gets out from behind the car that doesn’t have any tires.

 

“I presume that was you? Samantha?” He says, adding a little bit of cheekiness, something he won’t do, always be formal, always be polite.

 

“No, it isn’t,” she shakes her head. How she grows pouty is something that’ll forever be in his mind. Samantha walks closer and closer to him, she goes on her toes and she’s only just two metres away from him. He wants her to come a little bit, just a little bit more.

 

A beat passes.

 

“Hey Connor?”

 

“Yes?”

 

A sudden gust of wind rustles the leaves, then makes its way to the grass that’s is dying and dry, then goes to mess up her hair, just a little bit, making her giggle, then it comes through the window, tickling his skin, giving him just a little bit of a relief.

 

“Do you want to go to the festival with me?”

 

Everything else that she says grows like white noise.

 

He hates that kind of things, events that have crowds, too many people, too many noises, too many conversations that Connor hears which makes him bite his lip. 

 

Too many people, he finds it pointless. He would rather read a book about the history of ancient Egypt or the wonders of the renaissance. It kind of reminds him of parties, drunk teenagers making irrational decisions, leading to broken decisions and tears,  _ always  _ leaving someone hurt. Parties, events, anything like these is pointless.

 

But he’ll make an exception. Something that happens once in a lifetime. 

 

“--It’s just two days from now on but it’s not really a festival it’s more like a--”   
  
“I’ll go,” he interrupts her, giving her a quiet smile. 

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, I don’t see why not.”

 

But before he can say anything else, before he can reach out his hand she’s already running. Yelling  _ Later! _ while she waves him goodbye, quick, fleeting, as she pulls out a bike behind the car and hears the sound of her riding away. Then, she’s gone, gone in an instant. He wanted to say more, ask her how her day was, ask her when he can visit her. Anything along those lines.

 

But that’s  _ Samantha.  _ Quickly leaving with her  _ Laters!  _ while she runs away and leaves before he can say anything. It leaves him kind of bitter, disappointed in the inside. But he sucks it up, he can look at her ocean eyes once they meet once more, maybe it’s at night, or in the afternoon where she’ll drag him out of his break. It’ll be fine, he’ll see her again.

 

_ But he wishes she won’t leave with her Laters! Again. _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Dad.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

_ “Why are you acting so strange and weird this morning?” _

 

“Nothing.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Hank you’re late.”   
  
“I couldn’t give a shit--”

 

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, defusing the situation as he buts in, just outside the barely functioning police station in the steps, “It was my fault that both of us were late, I’ll make sure we won’t make the same mistake ever again.”

 

He watches them look at each other, stares lingering for three seconds, tense, heavy. He bites his lower lip. Both of them want to rip each other apart, tear everything into pieces. He’ll have to step in if anything happens.

 

“Sure,” Fowler takes his eyes off his Dad and looks at him instead, “don’t come late tomorrow and we’ll be good.” Fowler then walks past them, Connor watches him put his hands in his pockets. He looks back at his Dad, his mouth opens to speak but he closes it quickly. 

 

As they enter it's in absolute silence, not a sound of complaint. It’s dark yet it’s hotter in the inside than it is on the outside. The floor creaks beneath his feet, there’s little to no light inside, the light creeping through the blocked windows and landing in front of his feet. His Dad sits in his on his chair without hesitation while Connor stands there, awkwardly looking around.

 

He meets Gavin’s eyes, just for a moment, he’s just sitting there, leaning back, being lazy and not doing much. Gavin quickly looks away, Connor doesn’t. His eyes go on his T-shirt, billowy. But it feels like he can see under there, he wonders what  _ under there  _ look like? He how many scars there are, how many moles or burns on his chest. He’s seen some, just a little, it makes a Connor thinks about  _ him  _ just a bit more. What was he? What kind of person  _ is  _ Gavin? It feels his curiosity his a little.

 

There’s Chris, he smiles at him and gives him a simple wave before he sets back to work. Head down, fanning himself as he fills whatever kind of report he’s doing. 

 

He sits down on his chair, eyes wanting to look at his Dad, say a word, anything. But it’s tense between them, awkward. Connor is stiff, tense, looking away from him, hands fiddling with the hem of his shirt. He looks at the floor, then at the ceiling and the empty desk. He can’t do much, he hates it, just sitting there without doing much. 

 

His patrol will be up soon.

 

He can wait, hold on and tread on the thin string that he’s on. Just an hour, it can be that bad, it isn’t.

 

It’s going to be a long hour.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The old man isn’t acting like he’s supposed to be.

 

With his goddamn son, like a puppy, sitting next to him and always following him. But  _ Hank,  _ he’s not  _ Hank.  _ He’s not looking anywhere, he’s stiff and tense, he’s not even looking at his own son. Both of them are acting like an idiot, tiptoeing within each other. Connor, that  _ boy,  _ he’s just sitting there with his hands on his lap, not doing anything. Hank, that goddamn piece of shit isn’t paying any attention to Connor.

 

Something happened, but he can’t be bothered to care. Not his place, those two idiots can do whatever the hell they want. He’s not in the mood, Fowler yelled at him this morning for being late. He  _ almost  _ ended up punching him, instead just shoving him and swearing at him. He deserved it, that fucker. Who cares if he shows up an hour late? This whole place is falling apart, isn’t even a fucking police station anymore. 

 

He stands up, grabbing his plastic water bottle. Fuck it, he needs a break, get out here where it feels like it’s suffocating him. Smoke a cigarette, scream, do whatever the hell he wants. He feels like walking around, wherever he feels like it. He gets up to walk to the door.

 

“Where are you going?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


_ “Where are you going?”  _

 

When it left his mouth, it echoes inside. Why is he questioning where he’s going? It felt like a gut reaction. Chris looks at him and Gavin.

 

“Why the hell do you need to know?” Gavin says. Connor looks at him, looks at the outlines of his billowy T-shirt that’s probably too big for him. There’s a stain on it. But he can see the outlines of his muscles, just a bit. He stares at him for a bit too long, he tears his eyes off his chest and looks into his eyes.

 

“Because Fowler might get angry,” Connor lies. He receives a laugh from Gavin, sarcasm bleeds from it.

 

“Because Fowler might get angry,” Gavin repeats. He takes a step closer to Connor. Connor stands up from his seat. His Dad looks up, he can feel him death stare at Gavin. 

 

“Do you really care about this place? Connor?” Gavin says. Connor looks at the distance between them, close, too close. He looks at Gavin’s face, he can see the scar. A scar that people would probably miss, hidden away by freckles and the skin.

 

“I think that--”   
  


“I think that’s enough, Gavin.” His Dad’s voice is a little bit louder. Connor nibbles on his lower lip. Gavin throws his hands in the air.

 

“Ok, fine, I’m leaving.” He says, they interlock eyes for a second. 

 

Then he’s gone.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He doesn’t know where he’s going.

 

The town can’t be that big, it isn’t. Just a town full of shitty old people with shitty old lives.  _ Something  _ in him tells him to grow old. Become old and ragged, get wrinkles, slowly deteriorate, wear glasses so he can barely see where he’s going. Then he’ll get grandkids coming in, asking him questions that he really couldn’t give a single shit about. He wants that, just deep down, in the midst of the abyss.

 

But he  _ knows  _ he can’t have that

 

He looks at the little kids who ride their bike with their grandpa’s and grandmas and grandwhogivesafuck. He grits his teeth and walks faster, faster so that he doesn’t hear the stares, the whispers that are too loud that even  _ he  _ can hear it. 

 

The day stretches longer.

 

The shadows feel like it isn’t getting longer.

 

The sun’s heat stretches longer.

 

It’s getting tiring, the day is stretching more and more. He just wants it to end, cut it short, leave him smoking, look up at the stars and wonder what the hell is happening. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and his thoughts start to wonder. He’s getting restless, tired, wants to end, wants everything to end but slowly it's going places he doesn’t want it to go. Somebody that reminds him of his brother that doesn’t talk to him anymore and  _ him. _

 

“Hey.” Someone says. Gavin looks back to the tree he passed, sighing. A man, with his stubble, more than him, his is messier, unkempt, wild in some cases. Gavin eyes his clothes, simple green buttoned-up shirt that’s a little too tight, showing some of the muscle he built. His grey shorts are a little too short, just enough so Gavin can see just a bit more, this guy does leg day a lot. 

 

With his face clean, soft, the sun making him glow just a little. With his hair, perfect, swept to the side but messily done. With his watch on his arm. With his eyes, that’s a cloudy blue. With  _ everything.  _ He’s the type of guy that a girl’s parents expect. Perfect, clean but not  _ clean clean  _ but messily clean.

 

Fuck.

 

“What do you want asshole,” Gavin says it aggressively, louder than he needed to. He knows what will happen if he does. Get attached, the type of attached that’s  _ too much _ for the both of them. But once he gets attached Gavin has the fear that he’ll leave, gone like the wind, quickly. Abandonment issues crawling upon him but the craving of having  _ something  _ is there too. It makes a horrible combo, something that’s like fire, it feels like if he  _ touches  _ something it’ll fall apart and leave him with wanting  _ more _ .

 

“I barely did anything to you, relax.” His  _ voice  _ perfect too, clean, but deep while being in the neutral.

 

“I’m fucking leaving--”

 

“Wait,” He says. Gavin turns back around to look at him, shifting his weight into his other leg. Gavin looks at the sky, looks at the trees behind him, looks at the colour houses that’s in this street.  _ Anything  _ to stop himself from looking at  _ him.  _ He takes a step forward, a part of him wants him to take one more while the other wants to shove him away.

 

“I need a uh,” he pauses, “I need a hookup, a quick one.”

 

Gavin laughs, making it sound believable in the outside while inside he wants to. He remembers back in Detroit, just four years ago. He remembers the fuck buddies he had, one night stands with random strangers he’s met in the bars he’s gone int. But when reality hits him he gets attaches himself too quickly, becoming a problem, looking into the countless men he’s slept with and wanting  _ more.  _ He doesn’t do it anymore once he came to this shitty place, the breaking point coming from  _ him.  _

 

“I’ve heard all the talk about you--”

 

“Don’t you have a wife or girlfriend or something?” Gavin says, he does look like a guy who has a girl with him. The guy is just visiting someone, a relative. Or maybe he’s with his girl so she can introduce his new boyfriend. The guy looks like he won’t  _ ever  _ mess around. Just a clean-cut guy that’s two goodie shoes. It makes Gavin chew on his lower lip. Gavin doesn’t want to be the one to break everything between two people. He felt the impact before that ebbed by the smashing glasses and constant yelling, it fucking sucks.

 

“I don’t.” He mumbles, that’s all he says. The silence settles between them while Gavin eases a little bit. He shoves his hands into his pockets.

 

Gavin takes a step forward, he can’t hide the sly smile he has on. “You uh… sure about that buddy.” 

 

“I’m positive.”

 

Gavin takes another step forward. It feels like it’s getting longer and longer with each one. 

 

“You sure?”

 

The guy doesn’t answer. He just stands there and looks at Gavin. It feels like he’s teasing him and it  _ tempts  _ him just a little bit. Just a little bit like when he says ‘ _ fuck it one more smoke’  _ before he walks out the door to live his shitty life. That’s how it feels like when it’s just a little bit, but it stacks. 

 

Maybe just  _ one  _ more time to fool around like an idiot, just one more time. Don’t think of the consequence like an idiot and just think of the  _ present.  _ It’s what he’s done before, left him wanting  _ more  _ which means  _ more  _ tears and it leaves him torn.

 

“You’re fucking joking.” Gavin chuckles and turns around. He wishes it isn’t. He just wants one  _ more  _ time to fool around. 

 

The guy grabs his wrist roughly, Gavin looks at him. He’s biting his lip roughly and it makes Gavin--

 

“I’m not fucking joking,” he says. Those ‘ _ just a little bit’  _ starts to stack up which leaves Gavin at the edge of no return.

 

He takes a step forward, looks around and closes the distance between them. He leans forward, but not enough to where Gavin can kiss him. He can feel the hot breath on his skin, his breath smells like peppermint toothpaste. The expensive ones that make Gavin wonder who buys that sort of shit. 

 

Gavin can feel the hand on his wrist again, tighter this time. Gavin feels his cheeks fluster.

 

_ Fuck. _

 

“I just need a quick fuck.” The guys mumbles. Everything in his body is pushing him over the edge.  _ Everything.  _ And the way he says it is like honey to his ears yet deep like the ocean.

 

He doesn’t bother to look around. Doesn’t care if anyone is nearby. He’s simply gone over the edge and has no time to think. Thoughts are gone.  _ Everything  _ is gone. Now he’s just staring at the guy’s beautiful cloudy blue eyes.

 

_ “Okay.”  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Gavin groans. 

 

He remembers the after-effects, the feeling he’s had after a hookup. It feels like he’s in the clouds,  _ happy,  _ sleepy. He’s off the ground but he’s quickly falling, he’s wanting more. More of that stranger’s touch, more of him going over the edge, more of him moaning or giggling because Gavin isn’t taking any of his seriously.

 

He’s wanting  _ more. _

 

But wanting more is _bad_.

 

He sits up, trying to remember that he’s in planet Earth. He’s in his house, in his bedroom. It should have been that stanger’s place instead of Gavin’s. But the decisions that are made is done with hastily. Hitched breaths, hands-on skin which presses on deeper and deeper, taking of things. There wasn’t any time to make decisions, instead of ones that is rushed and neither of them didn’t really care at the moment.

 

Sunlight blocked by dark curtains, messy bed, used plates on the bedside table, wardrobe which has the door slightly open all the time, clothes scattered everywhere, a pile on a chair one the corner which reminds him that he needs to do his fucking laundry, a pile here and there. This is his bedroom, it’s messy and dark. Messy even though there’s hardly anything in his bedroom except his bed, bedside table, random plastic chairs and a wardrobe. 

 

The whole room feels  _ quiet,  _ like a hush just fallen over the room. No birds, no sounds of aeroplanes flying over head, none. Just him and the feeling of absolute bliss which is quickly fading away from his fingertips.

 

“Hey.”

 

He looks to his right.

 

He’s already awake, on his phone texting. He looks cute like this, just woken up with his hair messy and his lips soft. Gavin pushes those thoughts away and throws it all in the fire. He has to say these words in his head out loud.

 

_ This is just a hookup. _

 

_ This is just a hookup. _

 

_ This is just a hookup. _

 

“Hey,” Gavin says it back. 

 

“Want me to give you a beer before I leave?” He says and looks Gavin in the eyes. It rings in his head over and over again. The cute guy is leaving. Just walking out of the door and never coming back, only for Gavin to remember as another guy Gavin wants something  _ more _ . It’s settling, quickly, Gavin doesn’t want it to settle into his thoughts. 

 

“I’m good, actually.”   
  
“Wait really?” He says, he turns off his phone, “I thought you’re a beer sort of guy, I saw some in your fridge earlier.”   
  


“I just had too much,” Gavin lies. He  _ desperately  _ wants one. But he doesn’t say it, he stretches this conversation just a little bit more, “I know that if I had another beer then I’ll have another beer, then another beer, then another beer and after that I can’t stop myself anymore,” he says it quieter in the end, the realisation of what’s he said lingers on his eyes.

 

And goes to look at the cute guys’ face.

 

Then a couple of book in the corner of his room which he never knew he had. It reminds him of  _ someone  _ else.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay.”

  
The silence between them stretches further and further.

 

Then it eventually breaks by him shuffling out of his bed and putting on clothes. Gavin can see the hickeys he’s put on him, on his neck, on his chest. He dresses quickly. Walks out of his room and out the front door where he can hear the door loudly thud.

 

Gavin looks to the other side of the bed where the cute guy was before, then his eyes travel the door which is slightly ajar.

 

_ This is just a hookup _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ “Wish you were here!” _

 

It’s 2 in the morning, staring at his phone as he smiles at the picture. Just her in her bathrobe with a beer in hand in her hotel room, she looks drunk, but not  _ drunk drunk  _ like him back in Detroit. Back in Detroit before he moved back here in this rotting hell hole. Back in Detroit when  _ actually  _ cared about his job, looked like a Detective, solved cases, did  _ something. _ It felt like a new start, moving here, moving away from it all, it feels like a fucking joke now.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Gavin stands up from his chair, sighing. He looks towards Hank, not doing anything. Just sitting there. He looks around, then takes a swig of his flask that he pulled out underneath his desk.

 

“Fowler’s gonna get be fucking raining down on you if he finds out you’re drinking while on--”

 

“Gavin just shut the fuck up,” he mumbles, no strength, just like the tone he uses when he’s done with everything. The light outside reaches inside, the tiny line of light getting squeezed by the cabinet covering the window. It’s quiet, muffled. If he listens closely and tunes out everything he can hear the muffled chirping of the birds or the sound of children running.

 

He’s  _ really  _ itching for a smoke, this pile of shit feels like it's  _ suffocating  _ him. 

 

Gavin grips the desk behind his back, he leans against it. “I thought you were better than that.”

 

“I don’t give a shit Gavin.’

 

“Sure you do,” he says, “but you’re  _ weak  _ because you still can’t hold to the fact that your son--”

 

“Gavin shut the fuck up!” He stands up, the chair falls behind him with a thud. Everything grows silent, Gavin doesn’t cower, just  _ looking  _ at the old man’s eyes, it’s angry, it feels like it’s piercing into him, going further and further in.

 

“ _ Don’t  _ fucking talk about my  _ son _ ,” he says, his voice is quieter, but still bearing that anger that it has. 

 

It feels like they’re both standing on a thin thread of a rope, one more thing and it can break and everything will turn into utter chaos.  _ Good,  _ he  _ wants  _ to turn it into chaos. Hank will finally grow a shitty old brain and start to realise what the fuck he’s doing. Drinking and crying doesn’t do  _ anything _ .

 

“Don’t talk about  _ him,”  _ Hank says. Their eyes meet, it feels like a goddamn battle, chaos and fury brewing with each second.

 

Gavin laughs, it grows cold and awkward. But he sees Hank reacts to it with a tiny twitch. “Everyone has lost someone, grow a mind Hank and  _ stop  _ crying about it,” he mumbles, not caring if Hank didn’t hear it. The footsteps are loud, echoing, deafening to his ears. The door opens and closes with a loud thud. Hank sits down on his chair again, and starts drinking from his flask.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Connor looks at Gavin hastily run down the rackety stairs. He’s fidgety, hands shaky, eyes bouncing from one place to another. He takes a cigarette from his pocket and puts it between his lips. He starts to walk but his lips, words that just  _ appeared  _ out of nowhere, feeling like an instinct, out from his brain, a cry or a step closer to a possibility when he Connor says:

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Gavin stops, Connor takes a step forward. He’s hesitant, just a bit. The words felt awkward, getting lost in the heat of the sun or the wind that went passes that rustles the leaves. It got lost but not to  _ Gavin. _

 

__ He expects him to just start walking and ignore him but he stays, just twenty feet in front of him with his cigarette on his lips. It’s something so  _ tiny  _ but feels like a tiny change on Gavin. 

 

“What?” Gavin says, he takes the cigarette out from his mouth and puts it away. Not lighting it to keep smoking as he keeps talking to Connor, just keeping his focus while Connor watches him put his weight into his other leg.

 

“I said I’m sorry, Gavin.”

 

“Why?” He scoffs, “do  _ I  _ look like I need a sorry for me?”

 

“It was for my behaviour yesterday.”’

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ It was for my behaviour yesterday. _

 

Talking so formal it’s starting to sound annoying to Gavin. Listening to him talk to his stupid dad so formally. Formal, it reminds him of a man he saw in Detroit. Memories suddenly play over and over and over again on his mind and it feels bittersweet. He looks at Connor, brown eyes and a soft look on his face.

 

 It feels like someone flipped a switch, looking at Connor, realizing that he’s just part of the people he’s lost and forgotten. Swept away by him, go into the water where it’s hard to tread. Connor’s just like his brother, Connor’s just the man in Detroit which brought Gavin smiles for a while but gave him more tears,  _ hell _ , he even  _ looks  _ like him. There’s plenty more people, a piece of them torn and put into his, fucking, piece of shit of a human who’s right in front of him.

 

It feels like a curse.

 

“Gavin?” 

 

“Where did you go?” He says too fast. Change the subject, push it to the side, don’t talk about it.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I said where did you go?” Gavin talks a couple more steps towards him, bridge the gap closer, feeling like he’s going past the point of no return.

 

“On my patrol, what do you mean? Gavin?”

 

Gavin laughs, he looks at this feet. “We both know that no one  _ does  _ patrols in this shitty town.

 

“My Dad said that--”

 

“You were with someone,” Gavin says, he watches the neutral, soft face on Connor shift, he watches him bite his lower lip, “who was it?’

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“A girl,” Connor mumbles.

 

“A girl, huh.” Gavin says, it feels like he says it with bare teeth. It confuses him even more, all of the important components of the solution is swept away, replaced by a different language, different numbers, words, now it’s just a jumbled mess. Connor takes a step back, hands behind his back, fingers rubbing against his palms. His uneasiness is swirling around, threatening to become a storm.

 

“Why are you talking to me?” Connor says too fast. Change the subject, push it to the side, don’t talk about it.

 

“Because I want to know? Is that a fucking problem?”

 

“No,” Connor says, “No, it isn’t.” 

 

Connor looks at Gavin’s face one more time, it feels like words were passed down by a simple look, a simple stare. 

 

“I’m fuckin going.” Gavin says, turning around to light his cigarette. He watches him go, Connor keeps shifting his weight, fidgeting with his fingers and moving around his feet.

 

“Connor!” He turns around. Samantha’s there and she pulls him out of his little spell, his little daze. With her blonde hair and her bright blue eyes like the sky, she sighs.

 

“My grandma’s clearing out some random books,” she says. Connor looks at her hand clutching a book.”

 

“Here, apparently it’s some romance book or something,” she hands him the book, “my grandma has been talking about it for a long time, you read books right?”

 

“Yeah,” Connor says, he looks at the cover of the book, opening it and reading a couple of lines, feeling the roughness of the paper on his fingers, “call me by your--”

 

“I gotta go,” she says too quickly, but she makes it up by giving going on her toes and giving him a kiss on the cheek, Connor smiles.

 

“Meet you in the town square,” she says.

 

“Yeah,” Connor says. He watches her walk away too fast. He holds the book in front of him, flicking to the first page.

 

_ If not later, when? _

 

It echoes, leaving a bitter taste inside his mouth.

  
  
  
  
  
  


_ “Are you going to that stupid thing going on at the town square?” _

 

That’s what the thought brings him when he billows smoke from his lips, rising up in the air. The air is sticky and hot and it’s quiet, except for the sound of dragonflies and the rustling of the leaves.

 

A thought, a stupid thing that he thought about what he  _ could  _ have left his mouth but it didn’t, if it did he’ll be going closer and closer to his death from a curse. He grits his teeth. Thoughts are too loud, screaming inside his mind. So he burns it, lets it go, never thinks about it ever  _ again. _ It’s  _ too  _ dangerous.

 

_ If not later, when? _

 


End file.
